A Quiet, Little Town

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “I’d say you have,” Red said.

  “Good, then we understand each other,” Ritter said. “Deputy Muldoon, come with me. We will start with the alley”—he angled a glare at Red—“that’s still to be properly searched, and then we’ll inspect the hotel registers, see what strangers are in town.”

  Buttons seemed less than enthusiastic. “Seems a bit boring to me, Sheriff,” he said.

  “Maybe, but that’s what routine police work is, Deputy Muldoon, boring. But it produces results.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A knock came at Della Stark’s hotel room door, and she called out, “Who is it?”

  The reply was immediate. “Manuel Garcia and Will Graham, Miss Della. We’re kinda worried about you.”

  “Maybe it’s time to head back home, Miss Della,” Graham said.

  Della opened the door, and said, “Come in.”

  Hats in hand, the two spurred drovers walked into the room, filling it. Both wore Colts and knew how to use them, especially the fast, accurate Garcia, who was ranked among some of the best and had been a top gun in the Mason County War back in ’75.

  “Sit where you can,” Della said. “I want to ask you both a question.”

  Graham sat on a chair by the window, but Garcia remained standing, his back to the door, and Della didn’t push the matter. She remained in the middle of the floor, a normally lively, vivacious girl who now seemed subdued, her blue eyes troubled. It seemed that she had some trouble framing her question, and Garcia prompted her. “You have something to ask us, Miss Della?” he said.

  “Yes, and this is just between us three,” Della said.

  “Sets just fine with me,” Graham said.

  Garcia nodded. “Just between us.”

  Della took a deep breath and then said, “Do you think my father is capable of murdering the man I love?”

  The question came at the drovers like a cannonballing express, and for a moment they were stunned into silence. Garcia recovered first and said, “Would this man be a doctor?”

  “Yes, Dr. Ben Bradford. He is here in Fredericksburg,” Della said.

  Graham, younger and less considerate of Della’s feelings than Garcia, said, “The story going around is that the boss wants you to marry another man.”

  “Yes, Don Miguel de Serra.”

  Graham grinned. “Heck, he’s a Mex and he’s fat and ugly.”

  “And very rich,” Della said.

  “And you don’t want to marry him,” Garcia said.

  “No, I don’t. I wish to marry Dr. Bradford . . . Ben.”

  “So you think your father wants to get the doc out of the way by murdering him,” Garcia said.

  “I refuse to think that, but others do,” Della said. “I was told the assassins are already here in town.”

  Garcia said, “Miss Della, I’m a vaquero and I know cattle, but that’s not why your father hired me.” He tapped on his holstered Colt. “This gun is why.” His clenched jaw relaxed and he conjured up a smile. “If your father wanted the doctor dead, he would’ve sent me to kill him.”

  “Then who?” Graham said. Both Della and Garcia looked at him with blank faces, and he said, “If the boss doesn’t want Doc Bradford dead, then who does?”

  “I don’t know,” Della said. “Maybe another doctor who doesn’t like competition.”

  “Another doctor would invite him in for a drink and put poison in his glass,” Graham said. “He wouldn’t hire assassins to kill him. You have to admit that it seems unlikely.”

  “Can you think of anyone beside your pa who might want to do Dr. Bradford harm?” Garcia said.

  “No,” Della said. “I can think of no one.”

  “Hell, Miss Della—pardon my language—why don’t you just ask him?” Graham said.

  “Ask who what?’ the girl said.

  “Ask your father if he hired killers to murder your doctor friend. Ask him straight out, and if he says no, which I expect Mr. Stark will, beg his help to track down the real culprits.”

  Graham was a top hand, but usually he didn’t have enough horse sense to spit downwind and he’d just given advice to a woman without a lot of sense, either. Garcia, sharper than them both put together, was hesitant.

  “Miss Della, right now I don’t think you should tip your hand to anyone,” he said. “If Dr. Bradford’s killers are already here, then let’s get him out of town. As soon as it shows dark, we can put him in the surrey and head for Austin, where there’s a proper police force to protect him.”

  “No,” Della said. “Will is right. I’ll lay my cards on the table and see what Father has to say. I know in my heart of hearts he’ll be horrified to learn that Ben is being stalked by killers. This is my chance to convince him that I really do love Ben and won’t marry Don Miguel . . . ever . . . ever.”

  Garcia liked none of that speech. He knew he was talking out of turn as he said, “Miss Della, I think you’re making a big mistake. Gideon Stark is a harsh, severe man, and I don’t think love enters into his thinking.”

  “He loves me, Manuel. There is no doubt of that,” Della said, frowning.

  Garcia was in deep, and now he dug himself deeper. “Before anything else, let’s see to the doctor’s safety. Me and Will can stay here in Fredericksburg and give him all the protection he needs.”

  “My father can give Ben all the protection he needs,” Della said. “I’ll see to it.”

  Reluctantly, Garcia played his hole card, knowing it could cost him his job. “Miss Della, your father wanted a son, and your mother died trying to give him one.”

  “And what’s that supposed to tell me?” Della said, her face flushed as though her anger was on a slow burn.

  “I can tell you what Gideon told me. This was a couple of years ago when we were up on the Llano chasing after horse thieves. We’d camped on the south bank of the river, and we’d both had too much to drink and . . . maybe I shouldn’t tell you this.”

  “Tell me,” Della said. “You started it, now finish it.”

  “Well, Gideon told me . . . he told me that he blamed you for his wife’s death,” Garcia said. “He said if you’d been a boy child, they would never have risked trying for another. But they did, and Annie Stark died giving birth to a stillborn baby. It was a boy, and Gideon had planned to call him Daniel.” Garcia looked like a man about to slam a door behind him. “Miss Della, your father said that there were times when he hated you.” He watched Della’s stricken face and said, “Gideon was well in his cups. When a man is drunk, he’s likely to say things he doesn’t mean.”

  Della was silent.

  Graham coughed and looked out the window into the street, suddenly seeing something of great interest.

  Downstairs, dishes clattered in the kitchen.

  Della spoke.

  “I was four years old when my mother died, and I was never told about the dead baby. But you’re so wrong about my father. The years have made him a kinder, gentler person, and when he speaks to me it’s in the most tender terms. I have no doubt that after my mother died, he felt a dislike for me, but that is all gone. We had a disagreement about my marrying Don Miguel, and he did warn me that I’d be locked in my room until I relented, but that never happened.” She touched her hair with her fingertips and said, almost dreamily, “You can’t set store in the ravings of a drunk man. My father loves me. I know it, and everyone else knows it.”

  “Yes, Miss Della, I’m sure he does,” Garcia said.

  “Have you any doubts?” Della said. “If you have, say them now.”

  “None, no doubts at all,” Garcia said, surrendering, the lies coming easy to him now that the girl’s mind was made up.

  “What about you, Will?” Della said.

  The lanky cowboy grinned. “Mr. Stark is like a man with a spotted pup. Seen the boss lovin’ on his daughter with my own two eyes.”

  Della nodded. “Good. Will, you’ll take me back to the ranch just as soon as the surrey is ready. Manuel, you will rem
ain in Fredericksburg and make sure that Ben stays alive until my father gets here. Do you need some money?”

  “I can use a few dollars’ advance on my wages to cover the hotel,” Garcia said.

  Della opened her purse, removed some notes, and handed them to the vaquero.

  “Keep Ben alive,” she said. “Kill anyone you have to, but make sure he’s unharmed.”

  “I’ll do my best, Miss Della,” Garcia said.

  “Do better than your best,” Della said. “There’s already a man being paid to guard Ben, but I don’t have much faith in him. He’s some kind of tramp.”

  “Then I’ll put him out of a job,” Garcia said, attempting a smile.

  “And there’s a woman, a Pinkerton agent staying here in the hotel,” Della said. “Her name is Augusta Addington, and if you need help or advice, you can go to her. But above all, rely on your own judgment and skill with a gun.”

  “You can depend on me, Miss Della,” Garcia said.

  “I know I can,” the girl said. “If I thought otherwise, as of just a few minutes ago you’d be no longer working for the Stark Cattle Company.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The search through the stack of wanted dodgers on Sheriff Herman Ritter’s desk took Red Ryan all of fifteen minutes and produced no results. In recent years the breed Donny Bryson had tended to operate east of the Colorado, and it seemed his reward posters hadn’t made it this far.

  Disappointed, Red left the sheriff’s office and headed back to the Alpenrose.

  The young Fredericksburg belles he passed in the street, walking with stern, matronly mothers who hit the ground firmly with each step, were mostly blonde, pigtailed, and robust, and more than a few fluttered their eyelashes as he walked by. Red later calculated that he’d smiled and touched the brim of his derby half a dozen times before he reached the inn’s front porch. And there he paused as two events attracted his attention.

  The first, and a sight to see, was four mounted monks . . . or were they assassins as Augusta feared? . . . as they trotted from the hotel corral onto Main Street and then headed out of town. All four had their hooded robes hiked up for riding, sandaled feet in the stirrups. Red put that out of his mind for the moment, his entire focus on the man who’d just sauntered onto the porch of a hardware store across the street. Tall, lean, with long hair spilling over the shoulders of a gray shirt, he leaned against one of the pillars and built a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the departing monks. He wore his holstered Colt fairly high, the handle between wrist and elbow, all of the cartridge loops on the belt filled. A breed by the dark, high-cheekboned look of him, there was an air of confident, self-assurance about the man, a bulletproof arrogance that Red had only seen in named shootists.

  He studied the man more closely, and an alarm bell rang in his head.

  A breed . . . hard-faced and significant . . . wearing a gun as though he was born to it . . . ignored by passersby and therefore a stranger . . . black eyes watchful, never at rest . . .

  It slowly dawned on Red . . . this man could be Donny Bryson.

  Then something happened that quickly threw his assumption in doubt.

  The girl named Effie Bell that he’d met in the alley stepped out of a nearby baker’s shop with a wedge of yellow cake in her hand. She walked quickly along the boardwalk, smiling, and threw herself into the man’s arms. The two embraced briefly, and the girl offered the man a bite of the cake. The breed bit off a piece, chewed, and then asked the girl something. She nodded and produced from the pocket of her dress . . . a string of coral pink rosary beads. The breed took the beads, kissed the cross, grinned, and handed them back.

  Red was stunned. Mortified. He’d misjudged the man and blundered badly. The breed was obviously Effie’s brother, or perhaps half-brother. Raised by a devout stepmother, Red Ryan knew that a rosary was much prized by Catholics and not something that a violent killer like Donny Bryson would revere. And they were eating cake together, for God’s sake . . . how innocent was that?

  Feeling slightly foolish, Red figured that the day was hot, the walk from the sheriff’s office had been long and sweaty, and it was time for a stein of beer. But then Effie Bell crossed the street toward him. When she reached the Alpenrose porch, to make up for his earlier suspicions, he touched his hat brim and said, “Miss Bell.” The girl gave him a perfunctory smile and walked into the lobby.

  Red glanced across the street and saw Effie’s brother watching him. He realized that with a killer on the loose he could be anxious about the safety of his sister. Determined to right his previous wrong, Red smiled, gave the man a reassuring wave and followed the girl inside.

  “. . . is one of the reverend monks, and I want to give this to him. It was our dead mother’s rosary,” she said.

  “Your brother is one of the monks, you say,” the desk clerk said.

  “Yes, my oldest brother. His name is Friar Benedict.”

  “How did you know he was here, Miss . . . ah . . .”

  “Bell. Effie Bell. He wired me in Austin, where my other brother and I live. It’s been years, and my brother, he’s a little older than Benedict and me, is much overcome at meeting him again and is waiting outside to obtain a firmer grasp on his emotions.”

  The clerk, middle-aged, baby-faced, thin brown hair parted in the middle of his small head and round glasses that gave him the look of an owl, said, “I’m so sorry, Miss Bell, but you just missed your brother. He and the other monks rode out earlier to search for a site to build a mission.” He shook his head. “I warned them about the Apache outbreak, but they wouldn’t listen. They figure God will protect them, I guess.”

  Effie smiled. “My brother was always headstrong. I’ll return later, but I’d like to leave the rosary in his room. He’ll know where it came from.”

  “The monks are sharing one room, Miss Bell. We put in an extra cot, but they must be pretty crowded up there.”

  The girl’s smile was a mix of pride and amusement. “Brother Benedict will offer up the discomfort as a penance. Now, may I leave my mother’s rosary for him to find when he returns?”

  The clerk smiled. “How sweet. Of course, you can. It’s Room Twenty-two, upstairs and to your right. I’ll get you the key.”

  “Thank you,” Effie said. She took the key and said, “I’ll just wave to my brother so he knows all is well.”

  Red stepped aside to let the girl pass. She returned a moment later and said to the clerk, “Brother Benedict will be so happy.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he will,” the clerk said, looking pleased.

  * * *

  After the girl walked up the stairs, Red Ryan left the lobby, beer on his mind, and met Esau Pickles, who stood on the porch looking out into busy, dusty Main Street. Red glanced across the road, but Miss Bell’s brother was gone.

  “Howdy again, Red,” Pickles said. “They caught that killer yet?”

  “I don’t think so,” Red said, “Buttons got himself deputized and is with the sheriff trying to find him.”

  Pickles shook his head. “Any lowlife who’d gun a whiskey drummer would piss on a widder woman’s kindlin’.”

  “You got that right,” Red said. “All a whiskey drummer does is spread a little joy in the world.”

  “Him and a brewer,” Pickles said. Then, “When are you boys hitting the road again?”

  “Buttons is still trying to rustle up passengers.”

  “He ain’t gonna rustle up passengers playing lawman with Herman Ritter.”

  “Seems like,” Red said.

  “You know what I reckon?” Pickles said. “I reckon the man who shot the whiskey drummer is one of them temperance rannies down on demon drink. One time I went to a meeting where one of them, a feller by the name of the Reverend Brown, was speechifying and he reads a poem to all us drunks in the audience that I still recollect. It went . . .

  “Oh, thou demon drink, thou fell destroyer,

  Thou curse of society, and its greatest annoyer.

  Wh
at has thou done to society? Let me think . . .

  I answer thou has caused the most of ills, thou demon drink.”

  Pickles stared hard at Red and said, “Now that’s a fine poem, a great poem, but folks who think that way would put a bullet in a whiskey drummer fast as a duck on a june bug. If you see him before I do, you tell that to Deputy Sheriff Muldoon.”

  “I sure will, Esau,” Red said. “And you’re right, that is some powerful poetry. I once read in a newspaper that drinking leads to neglect of duty, moral degradation, and crime. And that’s very true, but only for some folks. It don’t apply to responsible imbibers like us.”

  “So, where are you headed, shotgun man?” Pickles said.

  “I figured I’d have myself a few steins of beer. Want to join me?”

  But before Pickles could answer, the desk clerk walked onto the porch and said to Red, “A touching scene, was it not, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Huh?” Red said.

  “Miss Bell leaving a token of love for her cloistered brother,” the clerk said.

  “Yeah, I guess it was,” Red said. “I met her in the alley after the shooting. She talked about her brother, but she didn’t mention a second brother being a monk.”

  “Perhaps she was afraid you’d think her boastful,” the clerk said.

  “Maybe so,” Red said. “I guess she sets store by having kin in holy orders.” He smiled. “Holy orders. My stepmother used to say that.”

  “Is she still alive, your stepmother?” the clerk said.

  “No. She and my father were took by the cholera when I was just a younker,” Red said. “I don’t remember my real mother at all, and I barely remember my father, a big man with a beard and a silver watch chain. But I remember my stepmother. She was gentle, and she smelled good, and she sang all the time, Irish songs and hymns mostly.”

  “That’s a crackerjack memory, Red, but my Pa was hung for a hoss thief,” Esau Pickles said. “Lookin’ back, it seems like a whole passel of us Pickles was hung, I mean everybody and the dog. Seems like my kin couldn’t keep their mitts off other folks’ plunder, and that habit done fer them.” He shook his head. “Strange that. I mean how it all come about, them being thieves an’ all. No watermelon patch was safe when a Pickle was around, an’ that’s a natural fact.”