“And your father wishes you to wed him so that . . .”
“The ranches will be joined by marriage, and my father becomes the richest and most influential Americano in Texas. And he makes no secret of the fact that he’d like to be president of the United States one day.”
“And in return, Don Miguel gets a pretty young bride to use and abuse as he pleases.”
Della shuddered. “That is Miguel’s price. And it seems my father is willing to pay it.”
Augusta sat in thought for long moments and then said, “Della, an ambitious man who would sell his own daughter to a depraved, diseased monster for his own gain would not hesitate to plan the murder of an obscure country doctor who could ruin his plans.”
“My father . . . I just don’t think he could be capable of . . . of cold-blooded murder,” Della said.
“Yes, you do, and it nags at you. That’s why you’re here,” Augusta said. She wore her hair piled up on her head in glossy waves, and the sunlight angling through the window was warm on the back of her neck.
Della’s troubled gaze fluttered over the older woman’s face and finally came to rest on the table in front of her. “What am I to do?” she whispered. “But, please, let’s keep my father out of this. You’re so wrong, Augusta. The more I think about it, the less I believe he would have Ben killed. My father once threatened to use a horsewhip on him, but that’s all.”
Augusta had listened in silence, her face expressionless, and now she said, “Della, I’m a Pinkerton agent, and the first thing you did was hire me to keep both you and your doctor safe,” Augusta said.
“Of course,” Della said. “That goes without saying. I have no one else to turn to.” She bit her lip.
Augusta lifted her cup and sipped her tea. It was cold. “Della, the clock is ticking. I believe an attempt on Dr. Ben Bradford’s life will happen very soon.”
A yelp of distress, and then Della said, “Oh my God, what do we do?”
“You do nothing until I tell you,” Augusta said. “Let me take care of it.”
“I can’t go back to the ranch,” Della said. “I know my father is not planning Ben’s murder. I know it, I know it, I know it . . . but after all these terrible accusations, I don’t think I could look him in the eye.”
“You’ll stay here at the hotel until this is all over,” Augusta said. She had begun to doubt Della’s intelligence, and her abject failure to accept the obvious was telling.
“And when will it be all over?” the girl said.
“A few days, no more than that. The vaquero and the other man, where do their loyalties lie?”
“Manuel and Will work for my father and they ride for the brand,” Della said. “I can put my trust in them.”
“Then tell them you’re staying in town for a few more days,” Augusta said. “They’ll probably be glad to miss their ranch chores. Fredericksburg is a square-toed town, but it has its attractions.”
“And what will you do, Augusta?” Della said. “Stay close to Ben? Do you have a gun?”
Augusta smiled. “Yes, I have fine revolver, and I’ll keep an eye on Ben. And I’m trying to recruit some help.”
“The sheriff?”
“Possibly, but right now I’m thinking of men of a rougher, tougher sort.”
“Outlaws?”
“No, not outlaws,” Augusta said. “But I have a feeling there are times when they come pretty close.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Buttons, you ever considered becoming an outlaw, leaving the stagecoach life behind?” Red Ryan said. “I mean like Jesse and Frank James and them.”
He sat with a depressed Buttons Muldoon in the Munich Keller, a shady beer garden set in a grove of ancient oaks on the edge of town.
“This is where Hannah Huckabee shot Dave Winter that time,” Buttons said.
“Held her hat in front of her and shot him right through it, didn’t she?” Red said.
“Something like that,” Buttons said. He looked at Red with bleak eyes. “No, I never considered being an outlaw, and now my luck’s turned bad, it’s the last profession a cursed man should be in.”
“You’re not cursed,” Red said, smiling, a rim of beer foam on his mustache.
“I ran over the hat,” Buttons said. “It’s all up for me.” His voice took on a plaintive tone. “You can tell me, Red, as a friend . . . is it all up for me?”
“Heck, no,” Red said. “You’re in your prime, Buttons. You’ll live to be a hundred. Maybe a hundred and one.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll be lucky if I live long enough to dirty another shirt.” He shook his head. “Me, Patrick Muldoon of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company done in by a hat. It’s hard to believe. Difficult to comprehend. Ain’t that what educated folks say?”
Red was spared having to comment by the unexpected appearance of Chris Mercer. The little man stood behind Buttons rubbing his mouth, his eyes fixed on the foaming tankards of beer on the table. Buttons followed Red’s gaze, turned his head, and said, “Damn you, Archibald. Don’t stand behind me like that, makes me feel like Wild Bill holding aces and eights. What the heck are you doing? Come around and stand where I can see you like a man and not a damned chicken thief.”
“I was passing, and I saw you gentlemen sitting there and thought I’d say hi,” Mercer said.
“Well, you’ve said it, now git,” Buttons said, his gloomy, bitter mood getting the better of him. He looked Mercer up and down from his ragged shirt and pants to the unlaced shoes on his feet. “You ever think of buying yourself a new suit?”
Red smiled. “Sit down, Mercer. I’ll buy you a beer.”
The small man sat down immediately, smiling. After the beer came and Mercer took a few grateful gulps, he said to Buttons, “I’m looking for work, but can’t find any.”
“And no wonder,” Buttons said. “Who the Heck is gonna hire a drunken tramp like you? I wouldn’t put the duds you’re wearing on a scarecrow.”
Mercer’s eyes hardened. “Muldoon . . . there was a time . . .”
Buttons stiffened and his hand dropped to his gun, hearing something in the little man’s voice he didn’t like, an echo from Mercer’s violent past. In his present depressed state, Buttons was unpredictable, and Red headed off any possible trouble. “I can find you a job, maybe.”
“Red, this man ain’t working for the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company,” Buttons said. “I won’t allow it.”
“Take it easy, Buttons, it’s not that kind of job,” Red said.
“I don’t take gun work,” Mercer said.
“Heck, you should be grateful for any kind of work,” Buttons said, scowling.
Red said, “You’d be a watchman, Mercer. Keeping watch to make sure a man stays alive.”
“Sounds like a strange kind of job,” the little man said.
“Finish your beer and then come with me,” Red said. “You’ll find out just how strange it is.”
“Is it dangerous?” Mercer said.
“Damn right it is,” Red said.
And Buttons smiled.
* * *
“Red told me about your problem, Miss Addington,” Buttons said. He grabbed Chris Mercer by the back of the neck and pushed him forward. “And here’s the man that can solve it. You remember Archibald from the stage?”
Red angled a glare at Buttons and said, “May we come in, Augusta?”
The woman opened her hotel room door wider, smiled and said, “Of course you may.” Directed at Red, she said, “Miss Stark has gone to her room to rest.” Then to the others, “Please sit wherever you can.”
“It’s all right, we’ll stand,” Red said. “This won’t take long. I told Mercer here you might have a job for him.”
Augusta seemed confused, “A job? What kind of job?”
“Watchman,” Red said. “He’ll keep watch over Della Stark’s doctor for you.”
The woman looked at Mercer and seemed unimpressed and even more confuse
d.
“Scrawny little runt, ain’t he?” Buttons said. “But there was a time when Archibald here was one of the most feared gunmen on the frontier. Ain’t that true, Archie?”
“My name is Chris Mercer, and yes, it’s true. I wish to God it was not.”
“He won’t carry a gun,” Red said.
“I’ll carry one, but I won’t use it,” Mercer said.
Augusta let that last dangle in the air and said to Red, “Did you talk to Mr. Muldoon about you and him providing protection for Ben Bradford for a few days.”
“Yes, he did,” Buttons said. “And he told me you’re a lady Pinkerton agent, the first one I’ve ever met. But the fact of the matter is that I’m trying to rustle up some passengers, and when I do, me and Red are out of here.” He shook his head. “Miss Addington, I’m a man under a curse, and the way my luck’s been running, I’d just be a hindrance to you. Heck, I had just gotten out of bed this morning when I stubbed my toe on the leg of the dresser. I think it’s broke.”
“The dresser?” Red said.
“No. My toe.”
“You could let Dr. Bradford take a look at it,” Augusta said.
“And then he’d be smitten by some of my bad luck, and get shot fer sure,” Buttons said.
“Who wants this doctor dead, and why?” Mercer said. He suddenly looked alert and interested, like a man who’d just woke from a long sleep.
Using as few words as possible, Augusta told Mercer about the threat to Bradford’s life and how Della Stark suspected that her father might be behind the murder plot.
“And I suspect the assassins are already here in Fredericksburg,” Augusta said.
“Yes, the four monks who are not monks,” Mercer said.
After that statement, Buttons Muldoon suddenly felt the need to sit, the bed squealing under his weight. “The holy monks?” he said. “I don’t believe you said that.”
“Did you see their hands?” Mercer said. “None of those boys has done a hard day’s work in their lives. I’ve made a study of men, especially men with gun rank. Did you ever see the likes of Bill Longley or Wes Hardin walk into a room? No? Well, I have. The moment they step through the door, they fill the place. You take those monks now. Four men, silent, still, but significant. Watchful. Cool, confident men who sit and wait . . . and God help you if they decide to make a play because they’ll come down on you like the hammer of God.” Mercer smiled slightly. “Dangerous men are not loud and boastful. They’re quiet, so quiet you can smell the odor of their dead silence.”
“Heck, I always thought them holy monks smelled funny,” Buttons said.
Red Ryan said, “Mercer, it seems like you should tell Sheriff Ritter what you just told us. He could arrest the four assassins and tell them he’ll free them in exchange for the name of the man who hired them.”
Mercer nodded. “Yes, the rube lawman could do that . . . and guarantee his place in the sweet by-and-by in time for supper. Besides, I’ve got no proof. If I walked into Ritter’s office and accused four rosary-beaded monks of being hired gunmen, I reckon I’d need a bushel basket of it.”
Augusta said, “Mr. Mercer . . .”
“Call me Chris. When I was somebody, Mister sat just fine with me. It doesn’t any longer.”
“Mr. Mercer,” Augusta said, “will you take on the job of guarding Dr. Bradford until I can resolve this problem?”
“Miss Addington is a Pinkerton agent,” Red said.
“I sure didn’t peg you for a schoolmarm,” Mercer said. “Yes, I’ll look out for him. That is, if he’ll have me.”
“Why don’t we go ask him,” Augusta said.
“Ask him if he’ll accept a ragamuffin as a watchman?” Button said. He shook his melancholy head. “I’ll retire to a madhouse.”
Mercer ignored that and said, “Miss Addington, I always demanded expenses when I took on a job. Do the Pinks pay them?”
“Reasonable expenses? Yes, they do.”
“Then I need pants, a shirt, and a pair of shoes,” Mercer said. “And a gun.”
Augusta didn’t hesitate. “I can provide the funds for clothing. As for the gun, I will loan you mine.”
“And leave yourself unarmed, with four killers on the loose?” Red said.
“They haven’t killed yet, Red,” Augusta said. She smiled. “And I have you to protect me.”
“Don’t count on it, lady,” Buttons said. “With or without passengers, me and Red are leaving this burg. The way my luck is running, if I stay here, I’ll end up the one that gets shot. And a word of warning, give Archibald money for duds and a gun, he’ll sell them and buy whiskey.”
“Will you do that, Mr. Mercer, spend the money I give you on whiskey?” Augusta said.
“Look at me. I’ll buy a shirt, pants, and a pair of shoes,” Mercer said.
Augusta opened her bag and brought out her revolver. “It’s a British Bulldog in .450 caliber.”
“Self-cocker, five rounds in the cylinder,” Mercer said. He took the revolver, hefted it for balance and expertly spun it around his trigger finger before it slapped back into his palm. “Fine weapon. One time up Fort Worth way, Luke Short told me he set store by the Bulldog because it hides in the pocket so well.”
“I have a box of ammunition to go with it,” Augusta said.
“I only need five,” Mercer said. “I don’t plan on doing any shooting,”
“Then a great watchman you’ll be,” Buttons said, his face sour. “And I never did like Luke Short, strutting little banty rooster that he is.”
Red said nothing . . . but he had to agree, not about the gunman Luke Short but about Mercer. A watchman who won’t shoot was as useless as tits on a boar hog.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The heat of the noonday sun on his back convinced Donny Bryson that waiting for the blonde woman to return from Fredericksburg was backing a loser. He cursed under his breath. Heck, she might spend days in the dress and hat shops.
Donny had coffee on the boil and was about to leave the rise when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He bellied down again, raised his telescope, and trained it to the west, about half a mile on the far side of the wagon road. Yes, there it was again . . . two figures, only one of them riding, emerged from the heat shimmer and moved slowly in his direction.
The sun baked him, a dry breeze parched his skin, and his mouth was as dry as mummy dust. But as enduring and patient as an Apache, Donny remained still for a long fifteen minutes, the glass to his eye. Damn, there might be profit in this. Little by little, the two figures came into focus . . . a man riding a mule and walking beside him a boy, or maybe a small, slight woman.
A few more minutes passed and Donny let them come within hailing distance before he rose to his feet, his Winchester cradled in his arms. The man on the mule saw him and drew rein. He was a graybeard, roughly dressed, with the look of a tin pan about him, and the woman seemed to be very young, no more than fifteen years old, wearing a thin, tattered, knee-length dress, washed out by the sun to a pale green color. Donny smiled. Things were starting to look up.
The rider mopped his face with a large red bandana and then said, “I smell something. Is that coffee on the bile?”
“Yeah, it is, and you’re welcome,” Donny said. He waved behind him. “My camp’s back yonder.”
“Well, I could sure use a cup,” the man said. He was chunky, white-haired, and looked to be about sixty. His eyes were bright blue, overhung by bushy brows, but his skin was as dark as a field hand’s, roughened to scuffed brown leather by sun and wind. He urged his rangy mule forward and followed Donny off the rise to his camp.
Before he told the man to step down and set a spell, Donny nodded in the direction of the girl and said, “Who is she?”
“Nobody,” the man said. “My name’s Lucas Bell. On my way to San Antone.”
Donny said to the girl, “What’s your name?”
“She don’t have a name,” Bell said.
The girl
looked at Donny with dull, lifeless brown eyes. She was plain-faced, stringy hair, small breasts and narrow hips under her dress, large feet flopping around inside a mismatched pair of male, cast-off shoes.
“Does she talk?” Donny said.
“I don’t know,” Bell said. “Maybe she does, but I’ve never asked her a question or spoke to her much.”
“Where did you find her?” Donny said.
“I didn’t find her. I bought her for five dollars from a hog farm up Buffalo Gap way. The feller in charge said she was too plain and lean flanked to ever be a whore, so he let her go cheap.”
“What do you use her for?” Donny said.
Bell jerked back surprised. “What are you, some kind of preacher? What the heck do you think I use her for?”
“Just asking,” Donny said, the Sharps .50-90 across Bell’s saddle horn inclining him to be social.
“She ain’t much, but when it’s all a man has, then he makes do or does without,” Bell said. “But I intend to sell her in San Antone first chance I get. Maybe somebody will offer me ten dollars for her. Now how about that coffee?”
* * *
Donny Bryson was a twisted, vicious, homicidal killer and rapist, but even he considered Lucas Bell a thoroughly unpleasant man. He had no conversation apart from brothels, dance halls, whores, and whiskey. He spoke about the daily beatings he gave the girl and how, no matter how hard he hit her, she refused to cry out. Then, worn and weary from the trail and the talk, he told Donny he’d stretch out under a tree and catch a nap.
He picked up his Sharps and said, “Mister, this here Big Fifty is both wife and child to me, and I keep her close.” Then, scowling, “Keep that in mind.”
Donny was a careful man. The only things of value Bell owned were the rifle and the mule. And the girl, of course. And she was worth five bucks, though he figured the tin pan could have gotten her for three dollars and fifty cents. He decided to let Bell rest unmolested. Nothing the man had was worth risking a bullet from the Sharps.
His rifle handy beside him, Bell found a shady spot, lay on his back, and within minutes was snoring.
Years after the event, a reporter for the Gillespie Tattler famously told Theodore Roosevelt, “Lucas Bell lay down for a nap and to this day has still not woke up.”
A Quiet, Little Town Page 13
