“You know, I never seen or heard the like,” Red said, grinning. “The old Comanche really can raise up the spirits of the dead.”
“That’s why they call him Sprit Talker,” Buttons said. “He’s right neighborly with dead folks on a stony lonesome.”
“The vaquero said that when he was alive, his name was Juan Lopez,” Red said. “But he didn’t mention being lonesome or getting struck and killed by lightning or anything like that.”
“Doesn’t surprise me none,” Buttons said. “Lifting my curse was more important, so he didn’t want to go into details.”
He and Red sat a table shaded by oaks in the nearly deserted Munich Keller beer garden. The waitress was blonde and buxom, and her name was Lilly, and Red liked her just fine. He reckoned that looking at her was one of life’s great pleasures, something that Buttons noticed.
“You thinking of sparking that gal?” he said.
“Yeah, thinking about it,” Red said.
“Forget it,” Buttons said.
“How come?”
“Heck, you’re a stage coach messenger. Stick to your own kind.”
“Buttons, there ain’t any female stagecoach messengers,” Red said.
“I know. Pity about that. But she might make courting time fer a driver.” He smiled at Lilly who stood at the bar and smiled back, twisting one of her pigtails around her forefinger.
Irritated, Red said, “Stick to your own kind, Buttons.”
“That rule don’t apply to me. Drivers are a good catch, and the ladies know it.”
The cuss that Red threw in Buttons’s direction was drowned out by the roar of a six-gun.
“The doc!” Buttons said, jumping to his feet.
Red said one word. “Augusta!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A man’s body lay facedown in the street at the corner of Main Street and North Adams and by the time Red and Buttons reached there, a crowd had already gathered.
Buttons, stocky and strong, elbowed his way to the body and asked a young man, who looked like a respectable clerk of some kind, “Who is he?”
The man shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen him before today.” He looked closely at the body, then turned to Buttons again and said, “I don’t think he’s from around these parts.”
“Make way there! Make way!”
Sheriff Herman Ritter pushed his way through the crowd and examined the man.
“Is . . . is he dead?” a woman asked, nervously twisting the lace handkerchief in her hands.
“As he’s ever gonna be,” Buttons said. “He’s been shot through and through.”
The woman shrieked, and Red said, “Nice going, Buttons.”
“What?” Buttons said, surprised.
Red was spared answering as Ritter said to the crowd, “Did anyone see what happened?”
“I did,” the respectable-looking clerk said. “I was walking out of Doan’s general store when I heard two shots and saw the man fall.”
“Did you see the shooter?” Ritter said.
“I caught a glimpse of him as he ran into the alley across there on the far side of Adams,” the young man said. “He’s wearing a dark blue shirt and brown pants. That’s all I saw.”
Ritter, a man without deputies, looked around the crowd and spotted Buttons and Red. “Ryan, check out the alley. Muldoon, you stay here with me. The murderer might have accomplices.”
It occurred to Red that Ritter was being a tad high and mighty with his orders, but he recalled that he owed the sheriff a favor or two dating back to the time of the adventuress Hannah Huckabee’s visit to Fredericksburg, and he merely nodded and angled across the street to the alley.
* * *
A three-story brick warehouse with barred windows and big, shapeless bushes pushing up at its foundations stood to Red’s right as he entered the alleyway. On his left, the rear of a general store, opened packing cases, and wisps of straw littered around its back door. Ahead of him more stores and another large warehouse with a parked freight wagon against its wall along with some empty wooden barrels. Red drew his Colt and walked deeper into the alley, hot and windless, the only sound the crunch of his boots on sandy gravel. A high, merciless sun bore down through a haze of dust, and the still air smelled vaguely of beer and boiled cabbage and outhouses. His eyes never at rest, Red stepped carefully and warily, his palm sweaty on the handle of his cocked revolver.
A narrow space ran between the warehouses, and he approached the gap carefully, annoyed that he could hear his own quick gasps of breath as he cautiously put one foot in front of the other. Suddenly he felt it . . . the nearness of another human being . . . as palpable as footsteps in a fog.
As tense as he was, Red almost jumped out of his skin. He brought up the Colt and yelled in the direction of the passageway between the warehouses and yelled, “Come out of there with your hands high or I’ll drill ya.”
“Don’t shoot!”
A woman’s voice, high-pitched and nervous.
“Walk on out, slowly,” Red said. “I’m with six marshals here, all well-armed and determined men.”
“Don’t shoot. I’m coming out.”
A plain-faced girl wearing a yellow dress, holding an open parasol over her head, stepped out of the gap. She smiled at Red and said, “Did I scare you?”
Red thumbed down the hammer of his Colt and asserted his manhood. “I’ve been scared by experts in my time, usually road agents or Apaches,” he said. “But girls don’t scare me.” Then, frowning, “Did you see a man wearing a blue shirt run down this alley?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, I did, right after I heard a gunshot.” She pointed in the other direction. “He was headed that way.”
Red looked down the alley, but it was empty. “Seems like he got away,” he said. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
The girl hesitated a moment and then said, “My brother and me are visiting Fredericksburg for the first time, and I decided to take a stroll and see the sights.”
“In an alley?”
“I got lost.”
“You staying at the Alpenrose Inn?” Red said.
“No. We’re further down Main Street at the Palace.”
“Well, let me escort you home,” Red said. “There’s a killer on the loose.”
The girl took Red’s arm and said, “You are very kind.”
As they walked, Red said, “Name’s Red Ryan. I’m a shotgun messenger for the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company.”
“You must be very brave,” the girl said. After another moment’s hesitation, she said, “My name is Effie . . . Effie Bell.”
“Right glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Bell,” Red said.
“Who was shot, Mr. Ryan?” the girl said.
“Some feller,” Red said. “I don’t know who.”
“For a moment back there I was very afraid,” the girl said. “I was gently raised, and I’m not used to shooting and killing.”
Red smiled. “Well, don’t be scared. You’re safe with me.”
The girl squeezed his arm. “Mr. Ryan, you’re my knight in shining armor,” she said.
* * *
“He’s a shotgun messenger and he walked me to the hotel,” the girl said. “He chased after you, and I met him in the alley.”
“Did anyone recognize me?” Donny Bryson said. “Did he say?”
“No. He told me he was looking for a man wearing a blue shirt. That was all.”
Donny unbuttoned the shirt and tossed it into a corner. “I won’t wear that again in Fredericksburg,” he said. “I’m sure the man I killed in the street recognized me.”
“Who was he, Donny?” the girl said.
“I don’t know. But if I had to guess I’d say he was a lawman from Austin. Damn devil looked at me strange.”
“What will we do now?” the girl said. “Maybe we should get out of this town.”
“Heck, no, we won’t. At least not now. There could be somethi
ng big brewing.”
“What have you heard, Donny?”
“Right now, there are four monks in Fredericksburg who could make us rich if we play the cards right.”
“What’s a monk?” the girl said.
“A kind of holy man. He wears a robe and sich and lives in a place called a monastery where he says prayers all day long.”
“So what are four monks doing here?”
“It’s supposed to be a secret, but the desk clerk says the whole town knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That the monks are here to build a mission out in the prairie around a holy relic.”
“What’s a holy relic?” the girl said.
“Well, this one is the staff of Moses . . . and don’t ask me who Moses was. I’ll tell you later,” Donny said. “The thing is, the staff is supposed to be as tall as a man, made from solid gold and studded with jewels . . . diamonds and rubies and the like. It’s valuable enough to keep a man in luxury for the rest of his life.”
“Is that true? I mean, solid gold with jewels?”
“Yeah, back in them olden Bible days folks had all kinds of gold and jewelry lying around.”
“When you said luxury, did you mean big house and horse and carriage luxury?”
“Yeah. That kind of luxury. Servants, private railroad cars, the whole enchilada.”
The girl seemed eager. “How do we get the staff?”
Donny smiled. “The way we usually get things we want, kill the monks and take it. A golden staff will be of more use to us than them.”
“Do you have a plan?” the girl said.
“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” Donny said. “The clerk says the monks are staying at the Alpenrose Inn. We’ll keep an eye on them.”
The girl sat down hard on the bed, her face aglow. “Oh, Donny, I’m so excited,” she said. “A big house, servants . . . I can’t believe my luck.” A pause, then, “Donny, will you call me Effie? Now I’m going to be rich, I need a name of my own.”
“Sure,” Donny said. “I’ll call you whatever the heck name you want.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ryan, where the heck have you been?” Sheriff Herman Ritter said. “I thought you’d been shot for sure.”
“You would’ve heard the bang,” Red Ryan said. “I met a young lady in the alley and escorted to her hotel, there being a killer on the loose an’ all.”
“Was she wearing a blue shirt?” Ritter said.
“No. A yellow dress and she was carrying a parasol.”
Buttons Muldoon smiled. “Was she pretty?”
“No, kinda plain. But nice.” Red glanced at the body, now being attended to by undertaker Benny Bone and his unmerry men. “You any idea who he is?” he asked the sheriff.
A big-bellied man with cropped fair hair and piercing blue eyes, wearing a gold watch chain as thick as an ironclad’s anchor hawser over his brocade vest, answered for the lawman. “His name is, or was, Nathaniel Foxworthy. He’s a drummer out of Chicago for Anderson and Lawson whiskey, came into my saloon often, but never drank. Look in his wallet and you’ll see a tintype of his wife and six young’uns. He was always mighty proud of that photo and showed it around.”
“He have any enemies in Fredericksburg?” Red said.
“I already answered that question for the sheriff,” the big saloon owner said. “And I’ll tell you what I told him . . . whiskey salesmen have no enemies.” He turned his head and started intently at a saloon named the Frederick Haus and said, “Sheriff, I have to get back to work or those verdammt bartenders of mine will rob me blind.”
After the man left, Benny Bone hopped to Ritter’s side, cocked his head like an inquisitive raven and said, “Sheriff Ritter, will you contact the bereaved?”
“I can reach them through Foxworthy’s company in Chicago,” the lawman said.
“Yes, I saw you speaking with Gert Sperling,” Bone said. “I’m sure he’s done business with all the whiskey distillers.” Then, after some hesitation, “Ah . . . does the deceased have enough money in his wallet to cover his embalming and burial?”
“I don’t know,” Ritter said. He juggled the dead man’s wallet, wedding ring, silver cigar case, and watch and chain and said finally to Red, “Here, take the wallet and see how much cash is in there. Maybe I can wire some of it to his wife.”
“A hundred and sixty-five dollars,” Red said, handing the wallet back. “But maybe some of that’s his company’s money.”
“Sheriff, I can cover the deceased for forty dollars,” Bone said.
“Forty dollars?” Buttons said. “You could plant a whole tribe of people for that.”
“It’s the embalming that’s expensive,” Bone said. “Like the young Austin lady, loved ones may wish to claim the body.”
“By the way, Mr. Muldoon, Austin wired me back and now the young lady has a name,” Ritter said. “She was the wife of a deputy marshal called Mark Russell. Her name was Alice, and she was twenty-three years old.”
“Damn, I hope I live long enough to see Donny Bryson hang,” Buttons said.
“And I hope I’m the one who hangs him,” Ritter said. The sheriff took forty dollars from the wallet. “Bury Foxworthy decent, Benny,” he said. “We may have to send the body back to Chicago.”
Bone nodded. “I’ll do a nice embalming job, Sheriff. Depend on it.”
“Sheriff, have you studied on the wanted dodgers in your office for any that have a likeness of Bryson?” Red Ryan said.
“No, I haven’t,” Ritter said. “But it’s a good idea, because he might come this way. Today, I’ll be kind of busy, but do you want to go through the dodgers, Ryan? I have a stack of them on my desk. Help yourself.”
“Sure,” Red said. “I might have some old friends in there that I haven’t seen in a spell.”
“Mr. Muldoon, until I find Foxworthy’s murderer, how do you feel about signing on as my temporary deputy?” Ritter said. “I can pay a dollar-fifty a day.”
To Red’s surprise, Buttons didn’t hesitate. “Normally, I’d say no,” he said. “But two things happened that changed my mind. One is that a curse has been lifted from me, and I’m headed for a run of good luck. The other is that I want to see Donny Bryson hang. Oh, and there’s a third . . . I haven’t yet picked up any fares headed up San Angelo way or points north.”
“Very well then, raise your right hand. Do you swear to uphold the laws of Texas?” Ritter said. Buttons nodded, and the sheriff said, “Good. Then you’re hired.”
Red said, “Maybe I should explain about Deputy Muldoon’s curse . . . an old Indian by the name of Spirit Talker squared him with a dead vaquero holding a grudge.”
“Spirit Talker . . . you mean Mukwooru, the Comanche, is back in town?” Ritter said.
“That’s the very feller,” Red said.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Ritter said. He shook his head. “I thought he’d been hung years ago.” Now he addressed Buttons. “We’ll find the killer of Foxworthy, but we’ll draw a blank on Bryson, Deputy Muldoon. I really don’t think he’ll venture into Fredericksburg.” Ritter looked beyond Buttons, frowned and said, “Ach du lieber Himmel! What on earth is that woman doing?”
Red followed the sheriff’s stare. Augusta Addington stood at the spot where Foxworthy’s body had just been carried away by the undertakers, her head bent, eyes fixed on the ground. To his surprise, Della Stark, looking cross and out of sorts, stood at the entrance to the alley.
“Yes, Della, right there is where the killer stood,” Augusta said. “And judging by the tracks, his victim walked toward him a few steps before he was shot.”
“It’s hot,” Della said. “Are we finished?”
“Yes, we’re finished,” Augusta said. “Why don’t you get inside and have a nice cool drink?”
“About time,” Della said.
The girl crossed the street and stepped onto the Alpenrose Inn porch, and without slowing her pace, her high-heeled boots thudding on th
e timbers, passed Red and Buttons with her eyes averted, nose in the air as though she somehow blamed them for all her troubles, and walked into the hotel lobby.
Augusta followed, smiling, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
She wore her white day dress, formfitting with a minimal bustle, and a straw boater hat.
Red thought she looked wonderful, but Sheriff Ritter was less impressed.
“What were you doing out there in the street, Miss Addington?” he said.
Augusta waited until a dusty Buffalo soldier sergeant and four even dustier troopers, exhausted Apache hunters by the look of them, jangled past before she spoke. “Sheriff Ritter, I was merely honing my investigatory skills,” she said.
“Why?” Ritter said. “The murder of Nathaniel Foxworthy is my investigation, not yours. And since when do junge Damen of obviously good breeding get involved in murder?”
Augusta smiled. “Since I became a Pinkerton agent.”
“No!” Ritter said. “There are no female Pinkerton agents.”
“There are now, Sheriff Ritter,” Augusta said. “Like it or not.” Before the young sheriff could respond, she said, “The victim was crossing the street when someone called out to him from the alley where Miss Stark was standing. He stopped, turned, and took several steps in the direction of his attacker before he was shot.”
“I’m aware of all that,” Ritter said, irritation pinking his cheekbones.
“The question is, did Foxworthy know his attacker, or was this a random attack? I think neither,” Augusta said. “Dismiss the obvious, and what’s left is usually the truth . . . that the shooter thought Foxworthy recognized him and for that reason killed him.”
“Then who is the killer?” Ritter said, his annoyance revealed by his aggressive, fist-clenched stance.
“I don’t know,” Augusta said.
“I don’t know, either,” Ritter said. “But I intend to find out. Why are you here. Miss Addington? Pinkerton work?”
“At this time, I’d rather not say,” Augusta said. Then a moment of inspiration. “Miss Stark and I are friends, and I’m visiting for a while.”
Ritter took the explanation at face value. “Then enjoy your stay, but keep out of my investigation,” he said. Then to Red, “I don’t want another problem like I had with Hannah Huckabee . . . I mean dealing with the ways of wild women. Do I make myself clear?”
A Quiet, Little Town Page 16
