A Quiet, Little Town

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  But then something happened that ruined Buttons’s plans and spoiled everyone’s appetite . . . two dead men thudded onto the cabin’s doorstep.

  * * *

  Ollie and Harvey Barnes each had four arrows in their backs, and both outlaws had been scalped and their eyes gouged out. Since Apaches enjoyed a good joke, the men had been stripped and dressed in the colorful skirts of two unfortunate Mexican women, a sly comment on the dead men’s worth as warriors. The Indians who’d dumped them from galloping horses were gone, but their dust cloud writhed in the darkness like a gray ghost.

  Smiler Thurmond revealed his mortal fear of Apaches by lurching away from the bodies and promptly throwing up, his convulsive retching violent and prolonged. The others, stunned by the suddenness of this horror, stood in silence until Honeysuckle Cairns said in her whispery little girl voice, “Oh, those poor fellers . . .”

  Thurmond, his eyes wild, returned to the front of the cabin and said, “Muldoon, take us back to Fort Concho. Now, before them damned savages kill us all.”

  “Heck, all they’ll do is follow us,” Buttons said. “There’s another station at old Fort Mason and it’s closer. We’re headed for there.”

  “How far?” Thurmond said, his voice unsteady. Smiler had been up the trail a time or two and didn’t want for bravery, but he was a frightened man that evening.

  “How far? We’ll get there before sunup,” Buttons said. “After we ford the San Saba, the road is good all the way.” Then, to sound reassuring, even to a man who was not a bona fide passenger, “We’ll make good time, and there’s a cow town nearby called Mason with some tough citizens and tougher lawmen. I don’t think the Apaches will come anywhere near that burg.”

  “I reckon it’s still safer here,” Thurmond said. “I say we stay right where we’re at until the army rounds up the hostiles.”

  “Mister, you got no say,” Buttons said.

  “Then ask the monks and Miss Addington,” Thurmond said. “Well, ma’am, you’ve heard about what Apaches do to white people. Do we stay or go?”

  “My vote is to push on,” Augusta said. “I have urgent business in Fredericksburg.”

  “Well, ask the monks,” Thurmond said. “What the savages did to Ollie and Harvey boogered them. You got four votes right there.”

  “There ain’t gonna be no voting on this trip,” Buttons said, his anger flaring. “As a representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, what I say goes. And I say we’re heading for Fort Mason.” He looked at Sam Young. “Sam, can you handle the burying?”

  “Sure, me and Honeysuckle Cairns done it many a time afore,” Young said.

  “I’ll help lay my boys to rest,” Thurmond said. “I’m staying right here.”

  “And count me in, too, Smiler,” Halton said.

  “Suit yourselves,” Buttons said. “Red, get the monks and Archibald Whatshisname in the stage. Miss Addington, please board when you’re ready.”

  “I’m almost ready,” Augusta said. “Just give me a minute.”

  Augusta stepped into the cabin and stood aside to let Red Ryan with the monks and Chris Mercer file past her on their way outside. She noticed that the monks didn’t seem in the least “boogered” as Smiler Thurmond had claimed. She didn’t think it strange.

  Honeysuckle stood at a table scraping plates into a bucket. She still wore her blue floral dress and was barefoot. “Miss Cairns,” Augusta said.

  The woman turned her head and smiled. “No one’s ever called me that before. Say it again, so I can hear it one more time.”

  “Miss Cairns,” Augusta said. She reached into her pocket and produced a folded lady’s handkerchief. Its scalloped edges had blue trim, and it was embroidered with blue wildflowers. “This is for you, a little memento of our meeting. I thought it would go nicely with your dress.”

  Honeysuckle wiped her hands on a rag and stepped to Augusta, her eyes wide. She stared down at the handkerchief and said, “A present? For me?”

  “Yes, for you,” Augusta said. “It’s silk, and I bought it in New York a couple of years ago.”

  “It’s so pretty and delicate, I daren’t touch it,” Honeysuckle said. She held up a hand and spread her fingers. “I’ve got big hands. They’re not like yours.”

  “You won’t damage it,” Augusta said. “Here, take it. Something to remember me by.”

  The woman took the handkerchief and laid it against her plump, sunburned cheek. “It’s so soft,” she said. “I’ll keep this forever and ever.”

  “You were kind to me, and I thought you should have it,” Augusta said. She smiled. “People have not always been as kind to me.”

  Impulsively, Honeysuckle threw her huge arms around the other woman and hugged her close.

  After a few moments of hesitation, Red Ryan stepped through the open cabin door to tell Augusta that the stage was ready to leave. He stood still for a moment, struck by the contrast between the short, dumpy, straw-haired, and illiterate Honeysuckle Cairns and the tall, elegant, beautiful, and educated Augusta Addington. Two women whose lives were worlds apart . . . but sisters under the skin.

  “Miss Addington, it’s time to leave,” Red said. He touched the brim of his plug hat. “Miss Cairns.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The side lamps of the Patterson stage glowed yellow in the gloom as it made its way south at a steady five miles an hour, trailing dust. The only sounds were the creak of the stage, the jangle of horse harnesses, and the fretful wind that moved the prairie grass as quietly as the rustle of a silk dress. The vast, shadowed land was barely visible under the light of the stars and a horned moon, lost in darkness, distance, and mystery. It was the midnight hour, a time for traveling men in Apache country to stay alert and watchful.

  After a long spell of silence, Buttons Muldoon said, “Somebody’s asleep.”

  “Snoring,” Red Ryan said.

  “Loud, like a ripsaw running through pine knots,” Buttons said. “I bet it’s one of them monks.”

  Red’s restless eyes scanned the distances ahead and around him and said, “Why do you think it’s a monk?”

  “Well, listen to it,” Buttons said. Then, “It ain’t Miss Addington, and it ain’t that little Whatshisname. He don’t have the lungs for it.”

  “By the way, it was white of you to let Mercer travel inside,” Red said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Buttons said. “But I’ll dump him after we ford the San Saba. Good grass and plenty of water down that way.”

  “Buttons, he’s a man, not a steer,” Red said. “He can’t survive on grass and water.”

  “Too bad,” Button said. He thought about it for a while and said, “Yeah, that’s just too bad.” Then, after another pause, he said, “Yup, that’s one of them monks snoring. It’s a kind of holy snore that you hear in church.”

  “You’ve never been in a church,” Red said.

  “That’s because I never lived for any length of time within the sound of church bells. And neither have you.”

  “That’s true, but how come you know that god-awful snoring”—he hushed for a spell so that Buttons could hear it plain—“is a holy snore?”

  “I just know, that’s all,” Buttons said, irritated. “Keep your eye on the trail, Red, and quit asking so many damn fool questions.”

  “It’s an unholy snore, that’s what is it,” Red said.

  “I don’t want to talk about the snore any longer,” Buttons said. “Just listening to it is bad enough.”

  * * *

  Fording the San Saba was easier than Buttons Muldoon expected. He made the crossing at a bend in the river where there was a shallow, sandy bottom and no current.

  When he reached the far bank, Buttons halted the team and gave the passengers ten minutes to stretch their legs and answer calls of nature. Even the monks availed themselves of a chance to leave the jolting, swaying and cramped misery of the stage and wandered off into the darkness.

  Buttons took Chris Mercer as
ide and said, “If’n you want, Archibald . . .”

  “My name is Chris. Chris Mercer.”

  Ignoring that, Buttons said, “If’n you want, I can drop you off here. I guess we’re a good hunnerd miles from San Angelo. Just south of us is Rock Springs, where there’s plenty of water. As I recollect, there’s a bat cave down there somewhere that’s a sight to see at sundown.” Buttons slapped the little man on the back. “A young feller like you could make himself real comfortable at Rock Springs, providing he could catch jackrabbits an’ wild turkeys an’ sich for supper.”

  “Or he could starve to death, if he wasn’t murdered by Apaches first.” This from Augusta, who had overheard every word. “You’re not leaving him here, Mr. Muldoon. That would be tantamount to murder.”

  “Tanta . . . tanta . . .” Buttons said. He looked confused.

  “She means leaving Mercer here would be the same as murdering him, Buttons,” Red said. “Why don’t you put a bullet in his head and get it over with?”

  Buttons snorted like one of his horses. “I’m not gonna . . . I mean, I’m not . . .”

  “Leave him here to starve,” Augusta said. “You can take him to the Fort Mason stage station, where perhaps he can find meaningful employment. And if not there, I’m sure he will find work in Fredericksburg.”

  “But it’s a hunnerd-dollar fare from here to German Town,” Buttons said. “Abe Patterson has that wrote down somewhere. And besides, all them square heads down there are farmers. Any way you cut it, lady, Archibald don’t have the makings of a sodbuster.”

  “Then he can find something else that suits his talents,” Augusta said.

  “Damn it all, he only had one God-given talent . . . shooting people,” Buttons said. “And he don’t want to work at that profession any longer.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Mercer can find something,” Augusta said. Then, frowning. “Mr. Muldoon, I repeat, you’re not leaving him here.”

  Then Mercer said, “I’ll stay here. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Damn, I need a drink.”

  “You want a drink, you don’t need a drink,” Augusta said. “You’re coming to Fredericksburg with the rest of us, and that’s final.”

  The woman was a formidable opponent, and Buttons retreated a step. “What about the fare?”

  “I’ll pay the fare,” Augusta said. “Mr. Mercer, you can repay me after you find gainful employment at any job you choose.”

  Red Ryan smiled. “Well, I’m glad that’s over. Now, can we get back on the road?”

  But, as the monks returned to the stage, Buttons wasn’t quite finished. His conscience pricking him, he said, “For this once I’ll forgo the fare, though Abe Patterson would fire me on the spot for saying that.” A sudden scowl on his face, then, “But Archibald rides up top. I don’t want him rubbing shoulders with the fare-paying passengers.”

  Augusta smiled, leaned forward and kissed Buttons on his stubbled cheek. “You’re an angel, Mr. Muldoon,” she said.

  Buttons covered his embarrassment and obvious delight with bluster. “Archibald, get up top there and stop wasting everybody’s time,” he yelled.

  He knew Red Ryan was grinning at him but didn’t look in his direction.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The army had abandoned Fort Mason in 1871, and for years the nearby settlement of Mason had cannibalized the ruin for its own building projects until all that remained were the rock foundations of the headquarters building, the sutler’s store, and a few other structures. The original stage station had been burned to the ground by Apaches two years before, and in its place, situated in what had been the parade ground, was a large tent with an adjoining corral.

  When the Patterson stage arrived just before sunup, the place was in darkness.

  Buttons booted the brake lever into place and said, “I’ll go rouse them. The passengers need breakfast, and so does this driver.”

  But before he could climb down from the box, a party of horsemen emerged from the gloom, eight men carrying rifles across their saddle horns. The riders drew rein and one man kicked his mount forward. He was a stocky, gray-haired man with a tense face and lawman’s star pinned to the lapel of his black frock coat.

  “Identify yourselves,” the man said.

  Now Buttons was tired and hungry and in no mood to answer a damn fool question. “Heck, mister, who we are is written all over this here stage.”

  “Identify yourselves,” the lawman said.

  Buttons sighed. “I’m the driver, and my name is Patrick Muldoon of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. This here feller in the plug hat is Red Ryan, the shotgun messenger.”

  “Who is the man on top?” the lawman said. He looked severe, judgmental, like a hanging judge.

  “He’s a chicken thief by the name of Archibald . . . somebody,” Buttons said. “We’re taking him to Fredericksburg, where he can start a new life.”

  “Stealing chickens?” the lawman said.

  “No. He’s turned his back on that life and hopes to learn the farming profession.”

  “He don’t look like he’s got any farmer in him. Other passengers?”

  “Four robed and holy monks and a young lady of good breeding.”

  The lawman was surprised. “Holy monks?”

  Buttons shrugged and said, “Yeah. Are there any other kind?”

  “See any Apaches?”

  “Yeah, we saw them up close and personal at Kickapoo station.”

  “Jim Moore’s place?”

  “The very same.”

  “What happened?”

  “The savages tried to steal horses and there was a shootout. They killed Jim’s hired hand, a man by the name of McKenzie, and lost four of their own. Killed Ollie and Harvey Barnes, too. They didn’t get any horses.”

  “Then you done good,” the lawman said. “My name is Frank Carson. I’m the law in Mason, and these fellers with me are members of the Mason mounted militia. We’ve been patrolling all night on the lookout for hostiles.”

  “See any?” Red Ryan said.

  “Nary a one,” Carson said. He looked a little disappointed. “Mr. Muldoon, you say you’re headed for German Town, and I got bad news for you.”

  “Seems like I’ve had more than my share on this trip,” Buttons said. “Let me hear it.”

  Its bit jangling, Carson’s horse shook its head at a pesky fly as the lawman said, “Donny Bryson broke out of the Austin jail, killed two deputies, and then robbed the Drover’s Bank on his way out of town on a stolen horse. The breed shot everybody inside the bank, five people, except for a pregnant woman he took with him, the wife of one of the deputies. That was a week ago, and she’s probably dead by now or wishes she was.”

  “We ain’t traveling as far as Austin,” Buttons said.

  “If you’re anywhere near the Perdinales River country, you’re far enough,” Carson said. “The word is that Donny has kin there, blanket Apaches on his momma’s side, and it’s a lead-pipe cinch that’s where he’s headed.”

  Buttons and Red exchanged glances. Donny Bryson was bad news. A gun-handy madman, he killed for the love of killing, and the Texas Rangers, not prone to exaggeration, claimed that he’d murdered at least sixty white people, men, women, and children. He’d also played hob in Old Mexico. The number of peons he’d slaughtered in his forays over the border was unknown, but high enough that the alarmed Díaz government had placed a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on his head.

  “We’ll steer clear of ol’ Donny,” Buttons said. “I plan to drop off the four holy monks and then hightail it back to San Angelo.”

  Carson looked doubtful. “Well, between Apaches on the prod and a killer like Donny Bryson in the area, it promises to be an interesting trip.” The lawman looked beyond Buttons, touched the brim of his hat, smiled, and said, “Ma’am.”

  Augusta Addington appeared from the side of the stage and dropped a little curtsey. “Good morning, Sheriff,” she said. “My name is Augusta Addington of the Philadelphi
a and New Orleans Addingtons, and I’m bound for Fredericksburg to take up a tutoring post.”

  Carson’s smile grew wider. “Ma’am, you are a sweet distraction for these old eyes.”

  “Why, thank you, Sheriff, what a singularly charming thing to say,” Augusta said. “Are you familiar with the ranchers down there in the Perdinales River country?”

  “Some of them, Ma’am. Some of them.”

  “Gideon Stark?”

  “Ah, yes. His is a well-known name in that part of Texas, a rancher of immense wealth and influence.”

  “I am to meet his daughter Della in Fredericksburg on the eighth of this month at the Alpenrose Inn,” Augusta said. “Our arrangement was made by wire a while ago, and I trust the Apache uprising has done nothing to change it.”

  “I believe I can set your mind at rest, Miss Addington,” Carson said. “Mr. Stark would not allow his daughter to travel alone. I assure you, she’ll have a strong escort of tough cowboys, enough to discourage the unwelcome attention of the savages or a murderous half-breed for that matter.”

  “Then I am content that our meeting will go ahead as planned,” Augusta said. “Miss Stark is most anxious to learn French and improve her English-language skills.” She trilled a laugh. “But I’m afraid I will teach her how French is spoken in New Orleans, not Paris.”

  “I’m sure your New Orleans French is perfect,” Carson said.

  To Red Ryan, the entire conversation sounded as false as a cracked bell. Buttons took it in stride, smiling in all the right places, but Red had the strong feeling that Augusta was lying through her teeth. She might be helping Della Stark, but not with her English. He asked himself the question . . . who the heck was Augusta Addington? And more to the point . . . what was she?

  At that instant Augusta turned her head and locked eyes with Red. For long moments neither dropped their gaze, and at last Augusta, revealing finely tuned feminine intuition, said, “Red, speak to me in Fredericksburg.”

  She looked away and left Red Ryan with yet another question . . . speak to her about what?

  The tent flap opened, and a big-bellied man, his cheeks scarlet with spider veins, stepped outside. His eyes went to Frank Carson and his riders and then to Buttons. “See any Apaches?” he said.