A Quiet, Little Town

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Or Arab women,” el Salim said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Augusta,” Red Ryan said. “How many men have told you that?”

  “Not enough,” Augusta Addington said. She smiled. “You know how to talk pretties, Red. I suppose you’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “No, not a lot,” Red lied. “Only them as really deserved it.”

  “And I deserve it,” Augusta said.

  “Yes. You deserve it mucho, as the Mexicans say.”

  “Then I’m flattered,” Augusta said.

  The candlelight of the Golden Horn restaurant was more than kind to Augusta Addington . . . it adored her. Its soft glow tangled in her shoulder-length hair, shimmered in her eyes, and transformed a woman in a plain white dress into a fairytale princess.

  Or so Red Ryan thought.

  The waiter brought platters of spring lamb with mint sauce, new potatoes, and peas and refilled their wineglasses with Bordeaux.

  As they ate, Augusta said she was worried that Della Stark had returned to her father’s ranch. “She’s gone back into the lion’s den with her pretty eyes wide open,” she said.

  Red speared a small, round potato, chewed, and then said, “This isn’t the conversation I had in mind for tonight.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Augusta said. She smiled. “Red, you can try to seduce me later. But as of now I’m a Pinkerton agent, and there are lives at stake.”

  “I still don’t think Gideon Stark wants the doctor feller dead. Well, maybe he does, but I don’t think he’ll be the one to pull the trigger.”

  “No, he won’t, because he’s hired professional assassins to do that.”

  “The holy monks.”

  “The unholy monks. Remember what they did in San Angelo.”

  “We don’t know it was them killed Stover Timms and Len Harlan,” Red said. “It could have been Apaches.”

  “Red, it wasn’t Apaches.” Augusta’s strong fingers tore a bread roll apart. “You know it and I know it.”

  “So what do you intend to do about it?” Red said.

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll order Sheriff Ritter to do his duty and arrest the four assassins on a charge of conspiracy to commit a felony murder as stated in the Texas Penal Code,” Augusta said.

  “Ritter isn’t going to arrest four monks in robes and hold them in the juzgado on your say-so, Pinkerton or no,” Red said. “Heck, there would be a Catholic uprising in Fredericksburg.”

  “Then I’ll arrest them myself,” Augusta said. “The lamb is excellent; don’t you think?”

  Red’s fork stopped midway between his plate and mouth. “You can’t arrest them. If they are hired gunmen, then they’ll kill you for sure.”

  “It’s my duty as a Pinkerton agent,” Augusta said. “Allan Pinkerton took a chance on me and the other women he hired as detectives. I can’t let him down.”

  “Getting shot is letting him down in a big way. And yes, the lamb is good.”

  Augusta smiled. “Red, meet me tomorrow morning at sunup in the hotel lobby. Maybe you can talk me out of it, but as of right now, my mind is made up and my revolver is loaded.”

  “I thought you gave your revolver to the chicken thief,” Red said.

  “A Pinkerton detective always has a spare,” Augusta said.

  “Bavarian chocolate cake for dessert?” the waiter said.

  * * *

  After dinner, Red suggested a stroll in the moonlight, but Augusta Addington said, “Yes, but only as far as Dr. Bradford’s place. I need to see how my hired man is holding up.”

  “You mean, if Mercer is holding up,” Red said. “He is probably out raiding a chicken coop.”

  “That was petty and not worthy of you, Red,” Augusta said. She took his arm. “We had a very pleasant dinner. Please don’t ruin it.”

  “Sorry,” Red said, smiling. “I guess I am a bit testy at that.”

  “The Dr. Bradford business is getting you down, perhaps.”

  “When you boil it down, the Dr. Bradford business is none of my concern,” Red said. “At least I don’t think it is. I don’t know what the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company would say about me getting involved.”

  “Involved? Of course, you are since I’m a likely future passenger,” Augusta said.

  “Yeah, there is always that,” Red said. He placed his hand over Augusta’s. “And there’s always you.”

  The woman smiled, her teeth white in the gloom. “What a nice thing to say, Red. I always knew you were a romantic at heart. Ah, here’s Dr. Bradford’s house, and there’s a lamp burning in the parlor.”

  * * *

  Red Ryan and Augusta Addington were greeted at the door by Chris Mercer and his .450 revolver. But he smiled instantly as he recognized them and said, “Come to visit?”

  “No, we don’t want to set a spell,” Red said. “Miss Addington is here to see that all is well.”

  “So far, so good,” Mercer said. “The doc is studying up on medical stuff from a book so big it would break your toes if you dropped it on your foot. When he has his nose buried in a book, he ignores everything else. Did you know that human stomach acid can dissolve iron? And if you dropped some on your hand it would burn right through it.”

  “Is that a natural fact?” Red said. “I can’t believe I’ve lived my entire life without knowing that.”

  “Well, it’s all in Dr. Bradford’s book,” Mercer said. “He told me about it, the many wonders of stomach acid.”

  “Then if the doctor is at study, we won’t disturb him,” Augusta said. “Tell him we stopped by.”

  “I sure will, Miss Addington,” Mercer said.

  “There is one thing you should know, Mr. Mercer,” Augusta said. “I’m confident that after tomorrow your services will no longer be needed as bodyguard for Dr. Bradford. I plan to tell Sheriff Ritter to make several arrests in the case.”

  “Anybody I know?” Mercer said.

  “I don’t want to say anymore tonight, but you will find out tomorrow,” Augusta said.

  “I’ll tell the doc,” Mercer said. “That’s good news.”

  “No, don’t say a word about this to Dr. Bradford,” Augusta said. “Until the culprits are locked up, I don’t want him to let his guard down, or you.”

  Then Red let the cat out of the bag.

  “Miss Addington believes the four holy monks that came in on the stage are the assassins who’ve been paid to kill Doc Bradford,” he said.

  Chris Mercer didn’t blink. “One of them has already been here with a bellyache,” he said. “A bad case of that stomach acid I was telling you about. He and another with him. They both had the hands of gentlemen. I made a judgment that night, but I could be wrong. It could be that some monks do all the hard work and others pray.”

  “The four monks in question don’t pray, and they don’t work, either,” Augusta said. “And, Red, I so wish you’d kept your mouth shut.”

  “Mercer should know,” Red said. “If four monks descend on him, he’d better be ready to shoot.”

  “Beware of monks with bellyaches, huh?” Mercer said.

  “Yeah, that’s about how it stacks up,” Red said. He read something in the other man’s eyes, how they glittered in the darkness. Mercer had just made his mind up about something. To get the heck out of town, Red guessed.

  “Call it woman’s intuition, but I don’t think the assassins will strike before tomorrow,” Augusta said. “They’ll want daylight to make a clean escape, especially with Apaches around and a posse on their back trail. So be on guard come sunup, Mr. Mercer, though I’ll be pounding on Sheriff Ritter’s door well before then.”

  “I’ll keep good watch,” Mercer said. “I’d rather trust a woman’s intuition than a man’s reason.”

  “Just make sure you remain at your post, Mercer,” Red said. “If the doc dies because you lit out, I’ll come looking for you.”

  “Ryan, your threat doesn’t scare me,�
� Mercer said. “But I’ll stick. I’ve took a liking to Doc Bradford, and I have a lot of respect for him and what he does. Never in my life felt that before.”

  “I never doubted that you would do otherwise, Mr. Mercer,” Augusta said. “That’s why I hired you. Just be careful until the arrests are made.” She smiled. “Now I’ll bid you a good night.”

  As they walked back to the hotel, August said, “Red, you’re very hard on that little man.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Red said. “He was somebody once, but now he’s just a drunk.”

  “He seemed to me that he was sober enough,” Augusta said. She pulled Red’s arm closer and smiled. “Now, between here and the Alpenrose, talk some more pretties to me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  A man’s finger pulls the trigger, but instinct tells him when to load the gun.

  Late as it was, Chris Mercer fully expected that something prophetic, something fraught with danger, would occur that night. And he was ready.

  The British Bulldog .450 was not a Colt, but he was confident enough of his shooting skills that he was sure he’d acquit himself well with the unfamiliar weapon if and when a gunfight came down.

  He sat in the doctor’s office, its open door giving him a good view of the entryway corridor. Gunslinging monks. He could drop all four before they reached him . . . of course, they’d be shooting back, and that was a great unknown. How good were they? If they were professionals, they’d be good enough.

  Dr. Bradford stepped out of his office, looked down the shadowed hallway, and said, “Mr. Mercer, you’re still awake? What time is it?” He consulted his watch. “Twelve midnight. The witching hour. Good heavens, have I been studying this long?”

  “Since sundown, Doc,” Mercer said.

  “Have I dined?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Mercer said.

  “Have you?” Bradford said.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll make us a sandwich,” the doctor said. “I have a loaf of good sourdough bread and some Bavarian ham. Do you like ham?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Mercer said.

  “Coming right up, my faithful Heimdall,” Bradford said, smiling.

  “Heimdall? What is that?” Mercer said.

  “You mean, who is that?” the doctor said. “Heimdall is the watchman who guards the halls of the Norse gods. It is said that he can see for a hundred leagues, night and day, and can hear the grass growing. He also keeps his horn handy to announce the end of the world.”

  “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t sound it tonight before I eat my sandwich,” Mercer said. “I’m sharp set.”

  Heimdall’s horn didn’t sound that night, but as Ben Bradford walked into the kitchen, knuckles rapping on the front door did.

  The doctor stepped back into the hallway. “Oh dear, sounds like an emergency.” He addressed himself to Mercer, but when he looked down the hallway toward his office the man was not in sight.

  More knocking. Urgent. Demanding.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming,” Bradford said.

  He opened the door.

  Two robed monks stood in the gloom, one supporting the other. “Our brother is very sick, Doctor,” Kirill Kuznetsov said. “It’s his belly again.”

  “Bring him inside,” Bradford said. “I’ll examine him in my surgery.”

  The big Russian was pleased. The doctor asked no questions and that bode well for tomorrow morning. Then, a flash of inspiration. Why wait that long? Kill him now and hide the body where no one would find it? He and the others could still ride out of town at dawn as planned. Then he suddenly heard the Irishman’s buts . . . But what if the body is found early? Then anyone trying to ride out of town would be suspect, even monks. But suppose the doctor has a gun, decides to fight for his life and cuts loose. The sound of shots would bring just about everybody in the rudely awakened town running to his house. But why not follow our agreed-upon plan so we don’t bungle things and face a hangman’s noose?

  Kuznetsov was not an imaginative man, and his thoughts were jumbled enough that he decided to wait until morning and do the thing quickly and silently with a knife. The Irishman was clever and had it all figured out, so his way was the right way.

  And then, if the Russian had any lingering doubt, his mind was made up for him.

  As Helmut Klemm groaned in pretend pain and Kuznetsov tried his hardest to look concerned, Chris Mercer stood in the doorway of the surgery, the British Bulldog in his waistband. He leaned a shoulder on the frame, his eyes on the Russian.

  Dr. Bradford looked up and said, “Oh, there you are, Mr. Mercer. I wondered where you’d gotten to.” He glanced at Mercer’s revolver but said nothing more.

  “How is the reverend monk?” Mercer said. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

  Kuznetsov lowered his head and stared at Mercer from under his shaggy eyebrows. The Russian’s blue eyes were narrowed, full of murder.

  “I still suspect an ulcer,” Bradford said. And then to Klemm. “We’ll try something a little stronger to reduce the acid. But if you don’t feel better by tomorrow, I may have to consider surgery as a last resort. Dr. Theodore Billroth is a brilliant pioneer in that field, and he’s had good results. I have studied his methods and . . .”

  Bradford talked on and on as Klemm tried his best to look like a man in pain who was interested in what the doctor told him. But not Kuznetsov. He and Mercer locked eyes, each fully aware of what the other would bring to a gunfight and liking none of it.

  In 1903 it was left to historian Bernard Loss to sum up that confrontation as “a clash of killers, made all the more peculiar by the frail appearance of the gunfighter Chris Mercer who was small and slender, his mild brown eyes revealing not the slightest tendency to malice or hostility. The Russian Kuznetsov on the other hand was tall and burly and much given to violent episodes. He was also a gunman of considerable skill. Mismatched as they were physically, each considered the other a man to be reckoned with, and the result of their suppositions would all too soon be fatal for a number of parties in Fredericksburg.”

  Dr. Bradford mixed a powder in water and then filled it into a brown bottle. “Take this as soon as you return to your hotel,” he said to Klemm. “Drink the whole bottle.”

  The German nodded, groaned convincingly, and Kuznetsov helped him from his chair.

  “Nothing more pathetic than a monk with the croup, is there?” Mercer said to the Russian.

  “Maybe it’s fatal,” Kuznetsov said, his eyes hard. “Like lead poisoning.”

  “No, that’s not the case,” Dr. Bradford said, shaking his head. “If it was lead poisoning, I’d expect headache and joint and muscle pain. Your brother monk does not have those symptoms. No, it’s undoubtedly an ulcer, and that’s quite serious enough.”

  Kuznetsov smiled and said to Mercer. “Heed what the doctor said. Lead poisoning is a serious business.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Bradford said. “Now, remember, drink the whole bottle. Come back tomorrow if you still have pain.”

  “How much do we owe you, Doctor?” the Russian said.

  “At the moment, still nothing,” Bradford said, “Seeing as how you’re members of the clergy and all that. We’ll see how the patient is feeling tomorrow.”

  “Seems like we’re all waiting for tomorrow,” Mercer said.

  Kuznetsov nodded. “Maybe we should start praying now,” he said.

  “As a physician, I don’t discount the power of prayer,” Bradford said.

  “Listen to the doctor,” the Russian said to Mercer. “Start saying your prayers, little man.”

  For a moment Bradford seemed puzzled by that statement, but when Klemm groaned horribly, he forgot all about it as he helped the doubled-over German to the door.

  * * *

  “Yes, I agree with the Russian,” Helmut Klemm said. “The little man is a problem. The doctor called him Mr. Mercer.”

  “Why the bloody hell is he there?” Sean O’Rourke said.
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  “I think someone knows the doctor’s life is in danger and supplied him with a bodyguard,” Klemm said.

  “Can he be dealt with?” O’Rourke said.

  “Of course, he can be dealt with,” Kuznetsov said. “But he’s a gunman. He’ll get work in with his revolver.”

  “Bang! Bang!” O’Rourke said. “Too noisy. As soon as the door is opened, can you rush him and the doctor, take them both down at the same time before a shot can be fired?”

  “Perhaps,” Klemm said. “It depends where Mercer is standing. He’ll draw and shoot in a split second.” The German shrugged. “And hit what he’s aiming at.”

  “I don’t like this,” O’Rourke said. “I don’t like this at all. And I especially don’t want to think that someone knows the reason we’re here. Any ideas? I need ideas.”

  “Yes, I have an idea,” Kuznetsov said. “And we should have done it days ago.”

  “Then speak, my Russian friend,” Klemm said.

  Kuznetsov said, “I’m not your friend, German. I’m nobody’s friend. A professional assassin is what I am, and I’m paid to take chances and risk my life if need be to get the job done.”

  “So, Kirill, your idea is dangerous?” O’Rourke said.

  “An idea that’s not dangerous is unworthy of the name idea,” Kuznetsov said.

  “Then let’s hear it,” O’Rourke said.

  “Let me say first that the four of us are more than a match for any serfs this town might assemble to stop us,” the Russian said.

  “This is true,” O’Rourke said. “Go ahead. Let’s hear you.”

  “Then I say at first light tomorrow we ride to the doctor’s office and shoot him as soon as he opens the door,” Kuznetsov said. “The man called Mercer will be careful and won’t rush out of the house, giving us time to gallop out of town.”

  “They might come after us,” O’Rourke said. “With what the Americans call a posse.”

  “Yes, and as I said, we can take care of any . . . posse,” the Russian said. “Come after us and the peasants of this town ride into a nightmare they can’t imagine.”