A Quiet, Little Town

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Red smiled. “Glad that you’re such an upstanding citizen, Esau. A credit to Pickles everywhere, hung and as yet unhung.”

  The old man nodded. “Thankee, Red. Truth is I never wanted anything bad enough to steal it.”

  The desk clerk looked over his shoulder. “Seems Miss Bell should have returned by now,” he said.

  “She probably used the back door,” Esau said. “Taking the alley home.”

  That familiar alarm ran in Red’s head again.

  “I think we should go look for her,” he said.

  “I don’t wish to intrude,” the clerk said.

  “I do,” Red said. “The alley isn’t a safe place for a woman to be. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The room smelled of men, was untidy, four opened carpetbags on the floor and razors and soap brushes on the dresser around the water pitcher. A monkish room that held no surprises. The pink coral rosary lay on the table by the bed and the only thing missing was the long case that held the staff of Moses. Red didn’t remember seeing one of the monks carry it when they rode out of town but then he didn’t really look at them closely. And after all, the staff was a holy relic and too precious to leave behind.

  “It seems Miss Bell took the back door,” the desk clerk said.

  “Looks like,” Red said.

  But something about the girl and her brother troubled him.

  * * *

  “It’s a rifle, a damn sharpshooter’s rifle,” Donny Bryson said. He swore under his breath, then, “It’s worth about maybe fifty dollars.” He glared at Effie Bell. “They took the golden staff with them.”

  “Why do monks need a rifle like that one?” Effie said. “What’s that brass thing?”

  “It’s a telescopic sight,” Donny said. “It brings the target closer up and sharp. Maybe the monks figure they’ll need a rifle to shoot their chuck when they’re building the mission.”

  “They’ll be back, Donny,” Effie said.

  “Yeah, and we’ll need to keep an eye on their comings and goings,” Donny said. “The next time they ride out, I’m heading after them.”

  “Bet you never shot a monk afore,” Effie said, grinning.

  “I never did, but there’s a first time for everything.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Of course, you are. I ain’t leaving you here in Fredericksburg.”

  “Do you like me, Donny?” Effie said.

  “Sure. I like you.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “What’s that? What’s love?”

  “It’s when you feel that you more than just like a person.”

  “Nah, I don’t feel that,” Donny said. “I said I like you, and that’s it. There’s nothing more.”

  The girl smiled slightly. “That’s enough for me.”

  “And so it should be,” Donny said. He picked up the Marlin-Ballard. “Now shut your trap while I figure out this here fancy meat gitter.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Gideon Stark was mighty pleased. He’d pushed a herd onto Harold Fairfax’s range and taken over the ranch house. It had all gone smoothly, and now the Englishman’s land and cattle were his, adding to his already immense holdings.

  Stark took a pull from his whiskey flask, studied the glowing end of his cigar, and then moved his cold gaze to the man swinging from the branch of a cottonwood. It was a pity about Jasper Stanton, Fairfax’s foreman. He’d opened his big mouth just once too often, and Stark had closed it forever with a noose.

  Gideon watched the Stark and Fairfax hands standing around the wagon with the beer barrel and whiskey jugs, getting loud. He thought that the hanging of Stanton might spoil the celebration, but the big foreman had been a hard-driving man, much given to reading the Bible, and not much liked. Stanton had mouthed off to Stark, told him to inform the belted earl in England that his son was dead and the ranch now belonged to the foreman, in the way of the West. Naturally Gideon had refused. He stated . . . both sets of hands thought reasonably . . . that before Harold Fairfax blew his brains out, he’d bequeathed the ranch to his own good self. After that statement, the standoff with the foreman Stanton had gotten bitter. The man had called out Stark for a damned liar and threatened to write to the earl himself and tell him what had happened.

  Gideon didn’t argue any further. He’d called for a rope and hanged Jasper Stanton from a cottonwood that was conveniently located near the ranch house.

  Full of whiskey and beer, the hands thought the hanging had gone well and that Stanton died game and had not embarrassed them. Indeed, the eight surviving Fairfax hands told Gideon that very thing and he rewarded them by increasing their pay to thirty-five dollars a month, top hand wages.

  Now, as the afternoon wore on and the sun dropped lower in the sky, Stark gave the order for Stanton to be cut down and buried somewhere on the range. As for himself, he was returning home for a good supper and then bed.

  “I can’t keep up with you young whippersnappers any longer,” he said. “Finish the whiskey and beer and bring the wagon back . . . if you’re able.”

  This drew a cheer and a few wisecracks about old age and bed and nobody seemed in the least put out by the murder of Jasper Stanton. As for Gideon, well, he didn’t give a damn if they did or did not.

  * * *

  Della’s surrey was back.

  Gideon Stark swung out of the saddle and stepped into the house.

  “Pa, is that you?” Della Stark called out from the parlor.

  “Who else would it be?” Stark said. He joined his daughter. No fatherly kiss. No hug. Just an angry question. “You stayed overnight in Fredericksburg . . . were you with Ben Bradford?”

  “We met, but I wasn’t with him,” Della said. Then a small lie. “Manuel wouldn’t let me out of his sight for two minutes.”

  “How much did your clothes shopping cost me?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t see anything I liked. Fredericksburg is not Paris.”

  Gideon poured himself a bourbon and then sat in his favorite chair. He studied his daughter closely and then said, “A bad thing happened here yesterday after you left.”

  Della smiled. “The sow hog get into the cook’s herb garden again?”

  “Almost as bad,” Stark said. “Harold Fairfax blew his brains out just about where you’re standing.”

  Della stepped away from the spot so fast it looked like she’d been pushed. “He what?”

  “Standing right there, he punched his own ticket to Hell.”

  “But . . . but why?”

  “Money problems, I guess. His wasn’t making his payroll, and his ranch was about to go belly up. He said to me, ‘Gideon, you can have it all . . . the whole sorry mess.’ Then he drew his gun and shot himself.”

  “Oh, my God, that’s so horrible,” Della said. She looked down at the carpet as though expecting to see blood. “Where is . . . the body?”

  “We buried him on his own range early this morning,” Stark said. “Him and one of his hands.”

  “What happened to him, the puncher, I mean?” Della said.

  “It was about me taking over the Fairfax spread. The foreman . . .”

  “Jasper Stanton.”

  “Yeah, him. He gave me sass and backtalk, and I hung him.”

  Della looked like she’d been slapped. “Pa . . . how . . . how could you do that?”

  “It was a disagreement between men, and I handled it the only way I know how,” Stark said. “I couldn’t show weakness to the Fairfax hands, not then, not when I’d just taken over the spread.” He slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Damn it, I won’t accept disrespect from any man.”

  Della looked behind her, backed to a chair, and sat. Her voice hollow, she said, “Pa, did you kill Harold Fairfax?”

  Stark looked at his daughter for a long time. Then he said, “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, Pa, it matters,” Della said. “It matters to me.”

  “Marry Don Miguel de Serra and it won�
�t matter. Nothing regarding me will matter. You’ll have your own ranch to concern yourself with.”

  “He’s a syphilitic pig, and I won’t marry him,” Della said. She was pale, her mouth tight.

  “Seems like we’ve been on this merry-go-round before and got nowhere,” Stark said. “All right, if you want to know the truth, I didn’t kill Fairfax. He shot himself in the head, and there’s an end to it.”

  “I so want to believe you, Pa,” Della said.

  “I didn’t kill him. Now that’s enough, girl. Let it go. And do the same with Stanton. He asked for what he got, damn his impudence.”

  “I must go to my room and change,” Della said.

  “And change your attitude while you’re at it, girl,” Stark said.

  * * *

  As the day shaded into night, shadows deepened in the parlor. Stark rose and lit a lamp and an amber glow filled the room. He poured himself another drink and with a groan sank back into his chair. In that moment it dawned on Della that for all his vaulting ambitions, her father was old and tired. Decades of ranching in the West, its constant toil, dirt, and dust and battles with the elements, rustlers, and hostile Indians was a hard and dangerous business that killed women and took its toll on even the strongest men. Della realized that her father could be vulnerable.

  She rose, poured herself a bourbon, and returned to her chair. The girl took a drink, then another, and finally said, “Pa, I think, in fact I know, that Ben’s life is in danger.”

  Gideon Stark sat immobile for long moments, his face stiff. Then he instantly shed all appearance of age and weariness. He lurched forward in his chair and his voice breaking with anger yelled, “What the hell do you mean?”

  Della was taken back and more than a little frightened, but she managed, “Somebody wants him dead.”

  “Who?

  “I don’t know.”

  Stark eased back in his chair. “Who told you this?”

  Della hesitated.

  “Tell me, girl,” Stark said.

  “I overheard one of the punchers say . . . please, Pa, I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Tell me or I’ll take a switch to you,” Stark said.

  “After one of our arguments over my marrying Don Miguel, I heard one of the hands say that Ben Bradford’s life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel.”

  “You foolish girl,” Stark said. “Since when did a drover say anything that you should listen to? Who was he? I’ll sack him right now.”

  “I can’t remember,” Della said. “But the Pinkerton says that Ben is in danger.” Della stared into her father’s wintry eyes. “Pa, she says . . .”

  “A woman Pinkerton agent?”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “She says what? Out with it. A female posing as a detective is a damned abomination. It goes against nature.”

  Della let her words gush out in a torrent. “Her name is Augusta Addington, and she says the only one who has anything to gain by murdering Ben is you. She says your hired killers are already in Fredericksburg and are about to strike.” The girl saw thunder gather in her father’s face, and she said, “I didn’t believe her, Pa. I don’t think you’re capable of such a terrible thing.”

  “Of course, I’m not,” Stark said. “Has she told this to anyone else?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Della said. “But I do think she confides in a man called Red Ryan. He’s a shotgun messenger for the Patterson stage.”

  “Red Ryan,” Stark repeated, as though he wished to remember the name. “Why the heck is there a Pinkerton in Fredericksburg in the first place?” Stark said.

  Della shook her head so vehemently her curls bounced. “I don’t know, Pa.”

  Gideon Stark liked none of this.

  The Pinkerton agent was bad news . . . and she was smart. She had it all figured out. Why the heck hadn’t the gunmen Ernest Walzer hired made their move? If the Pinkerton was right, they were already in Fredericksburg. Why the delay? He had questions without answers. When Bradford was finally out of the way, the Pinkerton . . . what was her name? . . . Augusta Addington . . . could tie him to the killing, something that Della must never know. Damn it all, killing begets killing, but Stark realized he was in this thing too deep to stop now. The Pinkerton would have to go and the shotgun messenger as well, a nonentity no one would miss.

  “Did Manuel Garcia go to the bunkhouse?” Stark said. “I want to talk with him.”

  “No, Pa, I left him in Fredericksburg to keep an eye on Ben,” Della said.

  “No matter, I’ll talk to him there,” Stark said.

  “You’re going to Fredericksburg?” Della said, surprised.

  “Yes. If someone really wants Bradford dead, I’ll do my best to protect him,” Stark said. “But, if I’m up against professional assassins and I fail, don’t blame me.”

  “I won’t blame you, Pa, and I knew you’d help,” Della said. She rose from her chair and threw her arms around her father’s neck. “I love you, Pa,” she said.

  Stark pushed her away, scowling. “Then stop that,” he said. “You’re no longer a child.”

  * * *

  The hands, noisy and drunk, had ridden in about an hour before Gideon Stark went to bed. Now, his hands clasped behind his head, he stared at the ceiling . . . plotting.

  He’d hired Manuel Garcia as a gun, and the man was a widow-maker who’d do his job. He could take care of the shotgun messenger. But Stark figured he’d attend to the Pinkerton personally. Della said the woman was staying at the Alpenrose Inn, and he wanted no slipups as far as she was concerned.

  After Bradford was dead, Stark reckoned he’d return to the ranch, squeeze tears from his eyes, and tell Della how heartbroken he was that he’d failed to protect her doctor. She’d understand. Then they’d get on with the wedding plans. And Garcia would keep his mouth shut, and if he didn’t . . . a rifle shot to the back can drop the fastest gun.

  Stark closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

  He felt good, relaxed, and confident even. Everything was going to work out just fine . . . except for that tingling pain in his left arm and shoulder that he’d been experiencing for the past few days. That was a little worrisome. The rheumatisms probably.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Brother Benedict!” the Alpenrose desk clerk said.

  The four monks, smelling of sweat and horses, stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at one another. Finally, Sean O’Rourke said, “I’m Brother Benedict.”

  The clerk beamed. “Your sister was here. Miss Effie Bell. A little slip of a thing, but a charming lady. She left a little surprise for you in your room.”

  O’Rourke could not hide his scowl. “What sort of surprise?” he said.

  “Oh, you’ll find out,” the clerk said, smiling. “But I can give you a little clue . . . it once belonged to your dear departed mother.”

  O’Rourke’s mother had been a Dublin prostitute who’d died of consumption at an early age, leaving her son to be raised by Monto Maggie Mulgrew the infamous brothel keeper. The Irishman’s mother had died penniless. She had no belongings. No legacy to leave.

  Without another word, O’Rourke and the others hurried up the stairs and into their room. Helmut Klemm looked around, let out a string of snarling Teutonic curses and then said, “Die Hure stole my rifle.”

  “No, Helmut,” O’Rourke said. “The whore stole the staff of Moses. Only by now, she realizes her mistake.”

  “I’ll kill her,” Klemm said. “And the dummkopf who allowed her up here.”

  Kirill Kuznetsov smiled and held up the coral rosary. The beads looked as though spots of blood covered his huge hand. “She left you these in trade, Klemm,” he said.

  “Yes, my sainted mother’s rosary,” O’Rourke said. “It’s probably been blessed by the Pope.” He took it from the Russian, stared at it for a moment, and then threw it into a corner. “This changes nothing,” he said. “We go ahead and make the kill as planned. Klemm, tonight you will have
a bellyache, and Kirill will take you to the doctor again. Tomorrow morning, once the horses are saddled, you’ll have another bellyache, and that’s when we kill the mark and ride out of town.”

  “What about my rifle?” Klemm said.

  “When we get back to England, tell the Jew to buy you another,” O’Rourke said.

  “What does it matter?” Salman el Salim said. He was a small, slender man lost inside his monkish robe. “After the Bradford kill, you’ll retire to your estate in Germany.”

  “Yes, where there’s wild boar aplenty, and I’ll have need of a fine rifle,” Klemm said.

  “Then do as the Irishman says,” el Salim said, his smile as thin as a knife blade. “Force the Jew Ernest Walzer to buy you another.” He shrugged. “Tell him it’s a business expense. He’ll understand.”

  Klemm said, “A slip of a girl, the clerk said. She won’t be difficult to find in this town among the frauleins.”

  “Da, big and healthy, like Russian women,” Kuznetsov said, grinning.

  O’Rourke shook his head. “No, Helmut. The mark is why we’re here. You’ve suffered a loss, but it’s personal. Go after the thief and you could put all of us in danger.”

  “I understand,” Klemm said. “But if I find her in a quiet place . . .”

  “Then kill her,” O’Rourke said. “But don’t go hunting the woman. Save that for the wild boars.”

  Klemm looked hard at Kuznetsov. “Russian women are ugly. They have faces like sows.”

  “And German women are all hideous whores,” Kuznetsov said.

  “Enough!” O’Rourke said. He pulled the Adams revolver from the pocket of his robe. “I won’t tolerate fighting among ourselves. The trouble is that we’ve been cramped together for too long. Tomorrow we make the kill, leave this damn town, and go our separate ways back to England. And I’ll shoot any man who’s not willing to abide by those terms.” Then, “I’ve bedded German women and Russian women, and they all looked pretty enough to me.” He smiled. “But none of them compare to Irish women.”