* * *
Donny Bryson drank coffee and then built a cigarette, watching the girl, who sat with her back to the rise in the full glare of the sun. He felt no real desire for her. He liked his women clean and pretty, and the girl was neither. But maybe if he got desperate. But would he ever be that desperate? Donny could come up with no answer to the question.
The girl rose to her feet, found Bell’s canteen, and drank loud and long. She corked the canteen, tossed it aside, and then slipped her feet out of her oversized shoes. She saw Donny watching her and smiled for the first time, a slight tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Hot, ain’t it?” she said. “I don’t always say ain’t. I was raised by nuns, and I can talk proper when I want.”
An Appalachian mountain accent. Kentucky, Donny guessed. “Some hot, I reckon,” he said.
The girl nodded and walked toward the wild oaks and the snoring Bell. She was short, not as ungainly in bare feet. Like Bell she was very brown, strands of her dirty blonde hair bleached almost white by the sun. She stopped. “Y’all drank coffee without me.”
“I didn’t know you wanted any,” Donny said.
“Don’t I look like I need coffee?” the girl said.
“Well, you ain’t looking too lively at that,” Donny said.
“Then pour me a cup, will ya?”
“Where are you headed?”
“I got something to do. Pour me a cup. The stronger the better.”
“Bell said you never talk,” Donny said.
“Not to him. He didn’t want to talk.”
“What’s your name?”
“I ain’t got one.”
“Everybody’s got a name.”
“I don’t. The nuns never got around to giving me one. Pour the coffee. Fill the cup to the brim. I got something to do.”
“What you got to do?” Donny said.
The girl didn’t answer. She resumed her walk toward the wild oaks. The day was still, no breeze, Bell’s steady snoring rasping in the silence. Donny poured coffee as black as coal into a cup, never taking his eyes off the girl. What the blazes was she up to?
On cat feet the girl stepped to Bell and stood beside him. She looked down at the man, taking her time, staring into his bearded face. And then . . . slow as molasses in January . . . she bent from the waist and put both hands on the Sharps. She remained in that position for long moments and then with infinite patience, inched the rifle toward her. Bell stirred, muttered something in his sleep, and the girl froze.
Donny Bryson watched, smiling slightly, fascinated.
After a few tense moments, the girl moved again. She grasped the Sharps and lifted.
Lucas Bell’s eyes flew open.
The girl was small and slight, and she struggled to bring the nine-and-a-half-pound rifle to bear. Bell sprang to his feet, knocked the Sharps from her hands, and then backhanded her across the face. Hit hard, the girl staggered back and fell. Bell drew a wicked-looking bowie knife from his belt, raised it aloft and screeched, “You hussy, I’ll kill you.”
Donny was no longer amused. He drew and fired and hit Bell on his right side. The bullet entered his chest just under the armpit, and exited through the man’s left shoulder blade in a scarlet mist of blood and bone chips. It was a terrible wound, and Bell screamed in pain and rage. But he was thickset and strong, and he took the bullet and stayed on his feet. Bell made a dive for the Sharps as Donny fired again. Another hit. Snarling like a wounded animal, his face twisted in hate, the tin pan hefted the Sharps to his waist and got off a shot that cracked the air inches from Donny’s head.
But Bell was done.
Donny fired again. A hit. Bell rode that third bullet into Hell.
In the ringing silence that followed, Donny Bryson and the girl stared at each other for a long time before the girl moved her gaze to the body and said, “He’s bleeding out like a butchered pig. Blood all over the ground.” She got to her feet and said, “You saved my life, mister.”
Donny thumbed cartridges into his Colt and grinned. “What life?”
“The one I’m gonna have someday.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. In a town.”
“Fredericksburg is close. It’s the only town around these parts.”
“Then that will do for a start.”
“If I let you live,” Donny said. “I haven’t made up my mind.”
“You’ll let me live,” the girl said. A trickle of blood from her mouth reached her chin. She used a foot to turn Bell’s head so that his open eyes looked blindly to his left. “I want him to watch,” she said. She pulled her dress over her head and stood naked. Her arms and legs were brown, her torso white as bleached bone. The girl lay on her back, spread her legs wide, and said, “Come here.”
Donny stared at her, hesitated a moment, then said, “I reckon I will let you live.”
“I figured you would,” the girl said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next day, Augusta Addington watched Dr. Ben Bradford and Della Stark embrace amid a shaft of late-morning sunlight that streamed through a window. They then clung closely, as though drawing strength from each other. Finally, the young physician said, speaking over Della’s shoulder, “Miss Addington, do you really think my life is in danger?”
“I know it is,” Augusta said. “And I pray to God that I can prevent your murder.”
Bradford and Della separated, and then the man said, “Gideon Stark?”
“He has the most to lose if you marry Della and the most to gain if you don’t,” Augusta said. “And I believe his hired killers are already in Fredericksburg.”
“My father would never do such a vile thing,” Della said, stepping away from Bradford before rounding on Augusta. “There must be someone else behind it.”
Chris Mercer, uncomfortable in stiff new clothes and even stiffer shoes, said, “Have you any enemies, doc?”
“Not that I know of,” Bradford said. “I said Gideon Stark only because he doesn’t want me to marry his daughter. He has in mind a rich Mexican rancher for a son-in-law.”
“Then he wants you dead,” Mercer said. “I’ve sold my gun to men with less motivation.”
“That’s just not my father,” Della said. “You just don’t know how he is. Ben, if he wanted you killed, he’d do it himself.”
“And have you hate him for the rest of your life,” Augusta said. “That’s a powerful reason for having a murder done that can’t be tied to him. And you said your father is interested in politics. Having a daughter who constantly blames him for her lover’s murder is hardly going to help the career of an ambitious statesman.”
“No!” Della shook her head so violently her ringlets bounced. “I won’t listen to this talk a moment longer. Augusta, find the real culprit. I’m willing to stay here in Fredericksburg until you do.”
Della Stark barged out of the room and then out of the house, Ben Bradford running after her. When he returned, he looked crestfallen. “She didn’t want to talk to me,” he said.
“She’ll get over it,” Augusta said. “There are some home truths that are astoundingly difficult to accept. Dr. Bradford, are you agreeable to Mr. Mercer staying with you for a few days as a watchman as I suggest? He will be armed.”
The doctor’s brown eyes became serious. “Under normal circumstances I would say no, that I can take care of myself. But something happened, something strange, and I’m willing to admit that it scared me.”
“Do you care to tell us about it?” Augusta said.
“There’s really not much to tell, and it may sound ridiculous, especially now in the light of day. It’s just . . . well it’s just that I felt I was being watched. That out in the darkness someone, something, was studying my every move. It felt . . . I don’t quite know how to phrase it . . . evil, malignant, that it wanted to do me harm. I turned off the lamps, jumped into bed, and pulled the covers over my head.” He looked at the faces in the room. “You could say I was terrified. So ye
s, Mr. Mercer, if that strange feeling returns, I’d like to have you here as a watchman.”
Mercer smiled and patted the leather couch he sat on and said. “I can make myself comfortable here.”
Augusta smiled. “Not too comfortable, I hope. You must stay alert, at least during the hours of darkness.”
“I don’t sleep much,” Mercer said. “Years of listening for a step in the hallway or a rustle in the bush teaches a man to be on guard.”
“I have a revolver,” Bradford said.
Mercer said, “Good. Then if something disturbs us in the night, grab your gun and make some noise. Just don’t shoot in my direction, huh?”
* * *
Red Ryan accompanied a subdued, worried Buttons Muldoon to the corral at the back of the hotel to check on the stage and his team. The man in charge was a scrawny, limping, old-timer named Esau Pickles who’d been a Union artilleryman. He’d lost a kneecap at Chickamauga that left him with a stiff-legged walk and a bad attitude.
After inspecting his horses, Buttons remarked that he noticed four more saddle mounts in the corral. “Getting crowded, Esau,” he said.
Pickles nodded. “I seen a thing. Four damned monks led them rental horses here from the Lange Livery. Said they planned to go on the scout for a place to build a mission to hold the stick that Moses used to part the sea or some sich. I didn’t like the look of them boys, all hooded and not showing their faces and only one of them talking, sounded like an Irishman. I seen things in my time, but I never seen nothing like that.”
“There’s them who don’t think those boys are monks at all,” Buttons said.
“What would they be, then?” Pickles said
“Hired gunmen,” Buttons said.
Pickles lived-in face screwed up in thought, then he said, “Now, here’s a thing. One of them monks stubbed his bare toe on the water trough over there and yelled, Hurensohn! Well that’s the German you hear it all the time in Fredericksburg, but do you know what it means?”
Red and Buttons shook their heads.
“It means son of a whore,” Pickles said. “I never thought to hear that come from the mouth of a friar.” He saw that Buttons and Red were drawing a blank. “Heck, have you ever hear any kind of reverend say that?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Buttons said. Then, “Esau, you’ve been around fighting men . . .”
“Been around Wes Hardin a time or two,” Pickles said. “And some mighty thorny Texas Rangers.”
“Yeah, well, do them monks put you in mind of Hardin?” Buttons said.
The old timer shook his head. “Nope. They sure don’t.”
“Not even a little?” Red said.
“Nope.”
“Texas Rangers?”
“Heck, no. They put me in mind of mighty strange monks who cuss from time to time. And that’s all they are.”
“How were they strange?” Buttons said.
“Heck, Buttons, all them sin busters are strange, one way or t’other. Now you take the Reverend Josiah Brown right here in Fredericksburg. He goes out in the prairie with a net and catches butterflies. No matter how hot it is, even at high noon, you’ll see him jumping around out there with his net. Of course, this recent trouble with the Apaches has forced him to catch his butterflies around town.” Pickles shook his head. “One day he’s gonna get mistook fer an Indian and get hisself shot.”
“Esau, you’ve been around a long while, so how do we find out if them monks are gunmen in disguise or not?” Buttons said.
“Ask them,” Pickles said. He placed his rough, veined hand on Buttons shoulder. “Stagecoach man, the word around town is you’re riding a bad luck streak that’s like to kill ya. So what have you got to lose? Ask them, pardner. Ask them.”
“And then what?” Buttons said.
Pickles rubbed his stubbled chin. “Well, then, pardners, one of two things will happen . . . they’ll either bless you or shoot you. Either way, you’ll have your answer.”
Buttons shook his head. “I don’t like the odds.”
“Fifty-fifty, I’d say,” Pickles said. “Less’n, you’re a man whose luck is running muddy, and then the odds get a sight shorter.”
“Well, I’ll study on it,” Buttons said.
“Buttons reckons there’s a curse on him because he flattened a Mexican hat that’s been lying on the trail for years,” Red said.
“Yup, been there for years and years, that sombrero,” Buttons said. “Belonged to a feller that was struck dead by lightning. Nobody would pick up the hat on account of how it was bad luck.” He shook his head, looking woeful. “And then I ran over it with the Patterson stage.”
“Smashed it,” Red said.
“Ruined it,” Buttons said.
“Pulverized it,” Red said.
Buttons scowled. “That’s enough, Red. I reckon Esau’s got the idea.”
“And now the curse of the hat is on you,” Pickles said.
“Seems like it is,” Red said.
“Well, lookee here, Buttons, maybe I got a solution to your problem,” Pickles said, looking crafty. “How well do you get along with Indians?”
“I don’t,” Buttons said. “Especially Apaches.”
“Comanches?” Pickles said.
“Never had any truck with Comanches.”
“Well, maybe that’s all to the good, because there’s an old Comanche medicine man on the south side of town they call Mukwooru, means Spirit Talker in American.”
“And . . .” Buttons said after the old man paused.
“And I hear tell he can lift curses. I know he can get rid of the evil eye quicker’n scat. All you got to do is cross his hand with silver.”
“You know this Injun?” Buttons said.
“Sure do. Two years ago, he told me my rheumatisms was acting up because somebody had put the evil eye on me,” Pickles said. “Well, sir, I crossed ol’ Spirit Talker’s hand with a silver dollar, and he got shed of the evil eye and the rheumatisms and from that day to this I’ve been fit as a fiddle.”
“Did the Comanche tell you who put the evil eye on you?’ Red said.
Pickles shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell me. But my guess would be the widder Flowers. I’d been sparkin’ Dora Flowers fer quite a spell but she didn’t hold with my drinking and threw me out of the house. She surely held a grudge, did that widder woman.”
“Then I reckon the hombre who owned the sombrero hat put the evil eye on me,” Buttons said.
His voice hollow, Pickles said, “From beyond the grave . . .”
“Right, that settles it, Buttons,” Red said. “We’ll go see the old Comanche. Make big medicine and get you a cure for the curse. A curse cure is what it will be. Then you’ll feel a sight better.”
Buttons looked miserable. “Red, you really think it will work?”
“Of course, it will work. The Injun cured Esau’s rheumatisms, didn’t he?”
“All right, I’ll see him,” Buttons said. “And then we head back to San Angelo and let folks in Fredericksburg work out their own problems.”
“That’s fine by me. We’ll leave Augusta Addington and them to their troubles,” Red said.
He didn’t mean a word of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I don’t think this is necessary,” Helmut Klemm said. “I say we just kill the doctor and leave his body to be found. By the time he’s discovered, we’ll be well on our way out of town.”
Sean O’Rourke shook his head. “No, Klemm. After he treats you for your bellyache today, he’ll be willing to let you inside tomorrow evening when the pain is so much worse. We kill him then and his body will lie in the house all night and when he’s found in the morning, we’ll be long gone.”
“That makes sense,” Salman el Salim said. “I will go with the German to the doctor.”
“No, I want Kuznetsov to accompany Klemm,” O’Rourke said. “To explain your accents, you will visit the good doctor as Polish monks sent by your monastery to help establish a
mission.”
“Will Herr Bradford believe that?” Klemm said.
“Of course, he will,” O’Rourke said. “Who the heck knows or cares what monks do?”
The German shrugged. “I don’t.”
“Nobody does.” O’Rourke crossed himself. “Except his Holiness, the Pope in Rome.”
“I don’t care about monks,” el Salim said. “Damned, chanting crusaders. I spit on them.”
“Monks . . . I like monks,” Kuznetsov said. “When I was a boy growing up in the Ural Mountains, there was a monastery near our village. The monks made jam from pine cones and wild berries and they gathered willow herb to brew Epilobium tea, a drink that heals the sick. The tea cured my grandmother of her depression and she lived cheerfully to be ninety years old.” The big Russian smiled. “Her name was Katina, and she always smelled like baking bread. Then came the day when the czar sent Cossacks to punish our village for refusing to pay taxes and they killed her. Murdered my mother and father, my seven brothers and three sisters. From that day forth I was hell on Cossacks. By the time I was eighteen I’d killed a score of them before I fled the empire and settled in France. In Marseilles, where foreign ships come and go, I learned that a man who knows how to kill skillfully is in much demand.”
Klemm nodded. “Kirill, it is good that you killed the Cossacks. Murderous scum.”
“And it is good that you lived close to monks,” O’Rourke said. He smiled. “That is why you play one so well.”
“And it’s because I had a holy mother. She told me that when I was still in the womb, she was visited by the Apostle Andrew who preached in the eastern lands,” Kuznetsov said. “He told her that one day I would be a warrior of great renown.” As O’Rourke had done, he blessed himself, but in the Russian Orthodox fashion, then tears sprang into his eyes and he said, “My mother was a saint.”
O’Rourke was alarmed. The last thing he needed now was a gigantic, melancholy Slav on his hands. “Yes, I’m sure she was,” he said. “Now, let us carry out the first part of our plan. Klemm, how is your belly?”
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