A Quiet, Little Town

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

* * *

  Now that it had done its worst, the storm passed. The darkness that had descended on the plains lifted, and the thunder now grumbled its way south, occasionally throwing out spiteful darts of lightning.

  Smiler Thurmond and the Barnes brothers watched the Patterson stage, its sidelamps lit, slowly emerge from the gloom. When Buttons drew rein on the team, he looked down at the dead man and the dead horse and said, “You’ve been through it, Smiler.”

  “I reckon,” Thurmond said. “Jonah Halton is dead, and I lost two good horses.” He looked at the soaking-wet driver and guard and said, “You don’t look so good yourselves.”

  Red’s buckskin shirt was black with rain, and Buttons’s blue sailor’s coat hung on him like a wet sack. “Damned storm rained bullfrogs and heifer yearlings,” Red said. “Sorry about Halton.”

  “I set store by him,” Smiler said.

  “Yeah, he was a right neighborly feller,” Buttons said, straight-faced.

  “What happened here?”

  Augusta Addington, carrying her top hat after it was knocked off during the stage’s violent charge through the storm, stepped toward Thurmond.

  “Man killed by lightning,” the outlaw said.

  Augusta kneeled by Halton, peeled off a glove, and felt the right side of the man’s neck. After ten seconds, she said, “How long has he been like this?”

  “Quite a spell,” Thurmond said.

  “How long?”

  Thurmond thought about and said, “Thirty minutes, maybe more.”

  Augusta nodded. “I can bring him back.”

  “How?” Thurmond said. “He’s dead.”

  “Not yet. Not quite,” the woman said. “I saw a Chinaman on the Barbary Coast over San Francisco way bring back a ship’s carpenter who’d been struck by lightning.” She laid aside her hat. “We have no time to waste.”

  Augusta forcibly opened Halton’s mouth and carefully looked inside. Then she placed the heel of her right hand on the center of Jonah Halton’s chest, put her other hand on top, and positioned herself so that her shoulders were above her hands. Using her body weight, she pressed down hard, and Buttons Muldoon would later say she almost flattened out Halton’s chest before she stopped and let his breastbone return to normal. After a hundred of these compressions, she stopped to rest for a few moments and then started again. Augusta was breathing hard after her fifth round of compressions, but she kept at it. After another three, Halton showed signs of life. He coughed weakly and moved his head. Augusta paused for a moment and said, “He’s coming around.”

  “He was spitting up blood,” Thurmond said. “I saw it and figured he was dead for sure.”

  “No, I checked his mouth, and, as I suspected, he’d bitten his tongue when he fell from his horse,” the woman said. “Here, help me sit him up.”

  Red and Buttons climbed down from the box, and the driver said, “Heck, lady, how did you do that? I mean, bring a man back from the dead.”

  “He wasn’t quite dead, and I got to him just in time,” Augusta said. “The Chinaman who taught me how to press on the chest that way told me it stimulates the lungs and the heart . . . something like that. He said that back in Shanghai he was a doctor.”

  “I reckon it takes a pretty good doctor to raise the dead,” Buttons said.

  Augusta smiled and let that go. Halton looked around and his eyes fixed on Thurmond. “Who shot me?” he said.

  “You weren’t shot, Jonah,” Thurmond said. “You were hit by lightning. Your horse is dead.”

  “Damn,” Halton said.

  “The young lady, Miss Addington, saved your life. Brung you back from the dead.”

  Augusta said, “He wasn’t . . .”

  “Like Lazarus in the Bible,” Halton said, interrupting. He turned his head and looked at Augusta. “Call me Lazarus.”

  “I prefer to call you Mr. Halton,” Augusta said. “Now, let’s get you to your feet. Mr. Muldoon, he’ll have to ride in the coach.”

  Buttons shook his head. “No, he can’t, not unless he has a hundred dollars, the fare from here to the Cave Springs station.”

  “I don’t have a hundred dollars,” Halton said.

  Buttons nodded. “In that case, by the authority vested in me by the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, you can ride on top, free of charge. Up there with the other drowned rat. Ain’t that right, Archibald? Or whatever the heck your name is.”

  “I’ll have to ride up there as well, Muldoon,” Thurmond said. “My hoss is in the next county by this time.” His hand edged closer to his gun. “Of course, I could just take over this stage, and you and Ryan can ride on top with the drowned rat.”

  When it came to rubbing shoulders with known outlaws, Red was a prudent man, and a mark of his caution was that he’d brought his shotgun down from the box with him. He lifted the barrel until the twin muzzles were in line with Thurmond’s belt buckle.

  “I can cut you in half from here, Smiler,” he said. “This will be your only notification.”

  The outlaw dropped his hand. “A joke, just a joke,” he said. “Damn it, I never did meet a shotgun messenger with a sense of humor.”

  “Having no sense of humor is a qualification for the job,” Red said. “It’s in the Patterson rule book.”

  “Damn right, and if it ain’t, it should be,” Buttons said. “Smiler, for once in your life are you gonna forget you’re an outlaw and act true blue and straight up, or do we leave you here?”

  “I’ll ride on top with Jonah,” Thurmond said. “Ollie and Harvey Barnes still got their nags.”

  “Crackerjack!” Buttons said. “Heck, Smiler, when we pull into Cave Springs, you’ll be the first to catch sight of Honeysuckle Cairns.”

  “Oh yeah?” Thurmond said. “Who’s she?”

  “You’ll find out,” Buttons said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On all fours, Honeysuckle Cairns crawled out of the creek behind the stage station and came face-to-face with a red wolf. She got to her feet, stood firmly on vast, tree-trunk legs, and then pulled her cotton shift over her wet body, the white fabric clinging pinkly to her huge, pendulous breasts and belly. The wolf seemed more curious than aggressive—a massive, naked women climbing from an icy creek was not a sight the animal encountered every day. For her part, Honeysuckle looked over the wolf with a critical eye. He was big, and would probably dress out at around sixty or seventy pounds. His brick-colored coat was thick and free of scars or sores. She had her heart set on a wolfskin rug for the floor in front of her fireplace and he’d do. He’d do just fine.

  The wolf stepped closer and watched Honeysuckle as she waddled to the gunbelt she’d left on top of the decayed stump of a long-ago felled cottonwood. She slid a self-cocking, .41 Colt Thunderer from the holster and a razor-sharp skinning knife from its sheath. Honeysuckle laid the knife carefully on the stump, raised the Colt, and neatly shot the wolf between the eyes. Aware of the old mountain man warning to never trust a wolf until it’s been skun, she waited . . . but the wolf didn’t move, undoubtedly as dead as the rotten cottonwood stump.

  Honeysuckle had just finished skinning the animal and was standing beside the gut pile, bloody knife in hand, when the Patterson stage drove into the station.

  * * *

  Buttons Muldoon always claimed that the owner of the Cave Springs station, a sour, humorless Ohioan named Sam Young, had the longest Yankee face on him that he’d ever seen. “And I’ve seen more than my share.”

  Young, dressed like a preacher in a black, broadcloth suit, collarless shirt, and flat-brimmed hat with dome-shaped crown, stood outside the station cabin and watched the Patterson stage arrive.

  Buttons reined to a creaking, swaying halt and said, “Howdy, Sam. It’s been a while.”

  “A six month at least,” Young said. “I was down with the rheumatisms all winter and lost my best hunting dog to a cougar. Missus took sick around Christmastime, and she ain’t near yet recovered. My hired man got the croup and claimed i
t was because of me. He up and left, and now I’m single-handed.”

  Buttons put on his sympathetic face. “You’ve been through it, Sam.”

  “Heck, nobody cares, especially stage passengers. I need this and gimme that. It’s enough to age a man. Well, I got a good team for you at least. Bacon and beans in the pot and coffee on the bile. I hear the Apaches are out.”

  “They sure are,” Buttons said. “We had a run-in with them up at Kickapoo station.”

  “Lose any passengers?” Young said.

  “No. But we done for four Apaches though.”

  “Is that a boast? Sounds like a boast to me.”

  “No. It’s just a natural fact.”

  “Patterson drivers are big on the brag,” Young said. “That’s been my experience. Unload your passengers and let them stretch their legs and we’ll get your team changed. You’ll keep going, I take it.”

  “Got a schedule to keep, Sam.”

  “Both of them swings are sweated up and look mighty tuckered out,” Young said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the swings,” Buttons said. “I know my horses, and they’re just fine.”

  Red Ryan grinned. “Sam, you reckon you can charge Abe Patterson extry for replacing run-down horses? Seems like you’ve done that before.”

  “So long as Patterson puts two-bit nags in the traces, I’ll keep on charging him extry,” Young said. “When’s an Apache gonna take that red hair of your’n, Ryan?”

  “They’ll have to catch me first, Sam,” Red said.

  “Maybe they will, this trip,” Young said. His eyes moved to the top of the stage. “That’s a desperate-looking bunch you got there.”

  “Two outlaws and a reformed gunslinger who took to drink,” Buttons said. “There’s a couple of other outlaws following on behind.”

  “I don’t see them,” Young said.

  “Well, they’re back yonder somewhere,” Buttons said.

  “Getting dark,” Young said.

  “Outlaws are used to riding the owlhoot,” Buttons said. “They’ll be here and hungry enough to eat your beans.”

  “More fool them,” Young said.

  His eyes were on the passengers and they grew bigger when he saw the tall, elegant, and beautiful Augusta Addington, and larger still when the four hooded monks filed silently into the cabin. Young looked up at Buttons, a question on his face, and was answered by a shrug and, “Holy men bound for the Perdinales River country. They plan to build a mission and convert the heathen cattlemen.”

  “Then I wish them good luck,” Young said. “They’re gonna need it. Gideon Stark is the cock of the walk down that way, and his Stark Cattle Company is the biggest ranch in Texas, or so they say. He’s two shades meaner than the devil himself, and he can kill a man just by looking at him. Stark won’t take kindly to monks building on his range.”

  Red noticed that Augusta hadn’t yet gone into the cabin. She stood near the door and listened to the exchange between Buttons and Young about the rancher named Stark.

  Buttons said, “I talked to a Ranger one time, and he told me it’s a natural fact that Gideon Stark has hung more rustlers, road agents, and robbers than all the judges in Texas put together. And he’s shot more than his share as well.”

  Augusta said, “He has sons?”

  Young shook his head. “No ma’am, Gideon Stark has no sons, just one daughter. I’ve never seen her, but they say she’s mighty pretty. He calls her Della, and half the young bucks in Texas would like to walk out with her, but don’t.”

  “Why not?” Augusta said.

  Young flashed a rare smile. “Because Stark is right handy with a bullwhip.”

  “A man to avoid,” Augusta said.

  “A hard, unforgiving man without a shred of mercy in him is Gideon Stark,” Young said. “And you’re right, young lady. He’s an hombre best left alone.” Young glanced around him, didn’t see what he was looking for, and yelled, “Honeysuckle! Where the heck are you, girl?”

  After the passage of a few moments, Honeysuckle Cairns waddled into sight, coming from the direction of the creek. Her damp shift was now stained with blood, as were her hands.

  “What happened to you?” Young said.

  “I skun a wolf,” Honeysuckle said.

  “Then get yourself cleaned up and put on your blue dress and feed the passengers,” Young said. “We got four monks inside, so be on your best behavior. No cussin’ or lewd talk, Honeysuckle, you hear?”

  “I hear,” the woman said. But she’d only half-listened, her eyes as round as coins, fixed on Augusta. After Young and Buttons left to change the horses, Honeysuckle stepped closer and reached out a blood-crusted hand, her fingertips barely touching the skirt of Augusta’s riding habit.

  Augusta smiled and said, “It’s silk. The jacket is velvet.”

  “The jacket is velvet,” Honeysuckle repeated in a whisper. She lifted her baby-blue eyes to Augusta’s face. “One time an army officer’s wife stopped here. She was young and she wore a dress like yours, only hers was green. But she wouldn’t let me touch it.”

  “Well, you can touch mine,” Augusta said, smiled.

  “She told me I was fat, the officer’s wife did,” Honeysuckle said. She sounded like a ten-year-old girl. “And she made a good joke. She said my ass looked like the south end of a northbound mule, and everybody laughed.”

  “That wasn’t very funny,” Augusta said.

  “Would you have laughed?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “You’re too much of a lady.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “An officer’s wife is supposed to be a lady.”

  “Some women are not ladies, no matter what they’re supposed to be,” Augusta said. She smiled. “My, I’m getting hungry.”

  “Come inside, I’ll fix you right up,” Honeysuckle said. She waved at Red. “You too, shotgun man.” Then, again to Augusta, “I’ll wear my blue dress. You’ll like it.”

  As Red ushered Augusta inside, he whispered, “You were nice to her.”

  “It doesn’t cost anything to be civil,” Augusta said.

  “I imagine most people are not.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “No, Augusta, you’re pretty much one of a kind,” Red said.

  * * *

  While Augusta and Honeysuckle Cairns were still talking outside, Chris Mercer had studied the monks who sat at one of three tables that took up most of the floor space in the cramped cabin. He was puzzled by what he saw. The monks had pushed back their loose sleeves, and their hands were visible as they sampled the heaping bowl of greasy corn dodgers, a specialty of the house, that crowned each table. During his time as a professional gunman, Mercer had trained himself to spot any quirks or mannerisms in an opponent that he might use to get the edge. One such man had been Ben Lawson, the Laredo drawfighter. Mercer had watched Lawson shade a wannabe in a Houston dance hall and noticed that just before he skinned the iron, he touched his tongue to his top lip. Mercer later killed Lawson in a dugout saloon in Kansas a split second after the man did his tongue thing. But what intrigued Mercer was the condition of the monks’ hands. All four of them, without exception, had the slender hands of countinghouse clerks, nails trimmed, well-cared-for mitts that had never seen a day’s hard work. This was unusual, if not unknown, among monks who labored in monasteries at menial manual labor from dawn ’til dusk. These four were planning to build a mission? Mercer doubted if they could hammer a nail into a block of wood. His predatory instincts told them what they were . . . the question was . . . what the heck were they doing in this part of Texas disguised as monks?

  Then the four spotted Chris Mercer. They saw the man, saw what was beneath.

  An urgent whisper . . . and four faces turned in his direction, eyes glittering in the shadow of their cowls. Wolves in sheep’s clothing, the foursome had instincts of their own, as finely tuned as Mercer’s and much more savage. The casual observer saw Mercer as a small, und
ernourished nonentity whose lined, ashen face showed the ravages of alcohol. To the monks, and for now that’s what we must call them, he was, or once had been, a gunman. The little man’s brown eyes were intent, his gaze direct, calculating, summing them up, unafraid. The same eyes the monks saw when they looked in a mirror. But this was not a gun-handy lawman, a man who would have a much more challenging air. No, at some point in his life this little man had spent time around other gunmen as an equal. Now he was a drunken, washed-up nobody . . . but he had at least the potential to be dangerous.

  One of the monks rose and walked toward Mercer, who by habit summarized him. No gun visible, but maybe carries a hideout. A smile on the man’s face, slight, a killer’s smile. The monk said, in an accent Mercer recognized as Irish, “A word of advice . . . use your breath to cool your soup. Nothing else.”

  Mercer nodded. “I’m over all that. My day is done.”

  “Then see it stays that way,” the monk said.

  When Red and Augusta followed by Smiler Thurmond and Jonah Halton stepped into the cabin, the monk took a corn dodger from the bowl on Mercer’s table, held it up and said, “Thank you and God bless you, brother.”

  “You’re welcome . . . brother,” Mercer said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Honeysuckle Cairns wore a tentlike blue floral dress that did a fair job of making her appear slightly less fat, though she still looked huge, something that attracted the attention of the monks. Red Ryan, watching, smiled to himself. The holy men had probably never seen the like of a four-hundred-pound whore serving up bacon, beans, and coffee.

  Honeysuckle took extra care when she ladled beans onto Augusta’s plate and beside the plate laid a round sugar cookie, slightly burned around the edges. “For you,” she whispered. “I baked it myself.”

  “Thank you,” Augusta said. “I’ll enjoy this. I love sugar cookies.”

  “I’m glad I could give it to such a fine lady,” Honeysuckle said.

  Buttons Muldoon and Sam Young had changed the team, and Buttons declared that everyone had to eat their grub real fast since he was anxious to get back on the trail, “instanter.”