A Quiet, Little Town

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  There was a silence after Kuznetsov spoke, then finally O’Rourke said, “Right. I say we do it. What about you, Klemm?”

  “We do as the Russian says.”

  “Salman el Salim?”

  The Arab nodded, but then said, “We have knives and pistols.” He looked at Klemm. “We’ve lost our expert rifleman.”

  O’Rourke smiled. “Pistols are all we need for a bunch of bumpkins. Kirill, how do you say peasants in Russian?”

  “Krest’yane is the Russian word for peasants,” Kuznetsov said.

  “That’s it . . . pistols for a bunch of krest’yane.” O’Rourke said.

  And the others laughed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Red Ryan kissed Augusta Addington at the door to her room.

  “I’m not inviting you inside, Red,” she said as she gently pushed him away. “It’s too soon. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  Husky-voiced, Red said, “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m a Pinkerton. Do I want to remain a Pinkerton, or would a love affair end my career?”

  “A baby,” Red said. “A baby would end it.”

  “Probably. Or if I got shot.”

  “Let’s not think of either of those things,” Red said.

  “Oh, but I must,” Augusta said. “I must think of those things and a lot of others.”

  “I’m only a shotgun messenger. I could be something else. If that’s what you wanted.”

  “And if you wanted me to stop being a Pinkerton, what else could I be?”

  “My wife,” Red said.

  “This is sudden,” Augusta said.

  “I know.”

  “Now I need even more time to think things through.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Red said. “I’ll wait.”

  Augusta kissed him again, a light brush of her lips. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You still plan to arrest the monks?” Red said.

  “Yes, early. After I wake up Sheriff Ritter.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Red said.

  Augusta shook her head. “No, Red. This is a matter for the law.”

  “Buttons Muldoon is a deputy,” Red said.

  Augusta smiled. “Of a sort. Now I must leave you, Red. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  * * *

  After the door closed on him, Red stood where he was for a while. Had he really proposed marriage? To Augusta Addington? To a beautiful woman so high above his station? The answer was obvious . . . yes, he had. And she hadn’t said no!

  Red was too worked up to sleep just yet. He walked downstairs, through the darkened lobby, and onto the porch. Fredericksburg was in bed, the buildings silvered by moonlight, coyotes yipping out in the hill country. The air smelled clean, of the blue night, the dust of day long settled.

  Red built a cigarette and enjoyed the quiet. He smoked for a few minutes and then turned to his right as he heard the slow thud of boots on the boardwalk, the footsteps of a weary man. Buttons Muldoon emerged from the heart of the night, his round face gloomy. A shiny new deputy’s star glinted on his chest.

  Red grinned and said, “Good evening, thou sorrowful apparition.”

  “That ain’t funny,” Buttons said.

  “You catch the killer?”

  “Not a sign of him.”

  “Any new people arrive in town?”

  “Only that little Bell gal and her brother, and he’s sick in bed and she says she’s worried that it might be something catching. Me and Ritter didn’t stay around to find out.”

  “Walk with me, Buttons,” Red said.

  “The heck I will. My feet hurt. It’s roosting time, and I’m for my bed.”

  “Buttons, there’s something tugging at me,” Red said.

  “Oh, no, don’t tell me. Not the Irish an dara sealladh again?”

  “Yes. I have two sights, and it is the sight of the seer that’s troubling me.”

  “Your mother told you that, didn’t she? That you have the gift?”

  “My Irish stepmother told me that. She saw it in me. But she said it’s not a gift but a curse.”

  Buttons grabbed the makings from Red’s shirt pocket, looked down at the tobacco and papers, and said, “What do you see in your crystal ball this time?”

  “It’s not what I see, Buttons, it’s what I feel.”

  The driver made an untidy cigarette, lit it, and said, talking out smoke, “So what do you feel then?”

  “It’s tugging at me, Buttons.”

  “Then tell me, damnit.”

  “I think Dr. Ben Bradford’s life is now in the greatest danger,” Red said.

  “Heck, we already know that,” Buttons said, weariness making him snappy. “That’s why Archibald is with him.”

  “Chris Mercer is a useless drunk,” Red said. “He can’t protect anybody.”

  “So your second sight is telling you that we should. Is that it?”

  “Yes, but only tonight,” Red said. “Augusta plans to get Sheriff Ritter to arrest the assassins tomorrow morning.”

  Buttons made a face. “You know that Ritter doesn’t drink? I mean, not even a beer. I’ve been so thirsty all day I’ve been spitting cotton.” He drew deeply on his cigarette, and the tip glowed bright red in the darkness. “Miss Augusta still think it’s them four holy monks?”

  “Yes. She thinks they’re gunmen in disguise,” Red said.

  “Heck, Red, a false beard is a disguise,” Buttons said. “Not a heavy, itchy brown robe.”

  “I reckon they must be careful men,” Red said. Then, “Buttons, I need you with me tonight.”

  “Count off the reasons why.”

  “You’re steady, determined, handy with the iron, and the bravest man I know,” Red said.

  “And good-looking,” Buttons said. “You forgot that.”

  “Yeah, and good-looking too,” Red said.

  “All right, I’ll do it,” Buttons said. “The sawbones has got to have a comfortable couch where I can stretch out. You can wake me up when we get attacked by a bloodthirsty band of holy monks.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  As they walked the shadowed streets, it seemed to Red Ryan that he and Buttons Muldoon were the only people awake in Fredericksburg in the early morning hour, not yet one o’clock. The night sky was ablaze with stars, and a rising breeze set the chains of the shop signs chinking and sent a page of newspaper bounding along the street like a ghostly jackrabbit.

  Dr. Bradford’s house was in darkness except for a rectangle of pale orange light that was the parlor window.

  “Seems peaceful enough,” Buttons said. “Maybe Archibald is doing his job.”

  “Could be,” Red said with some reluctance.

  They walked closer, the only sound the soft footfall of their boots on the dirt road. A pair of coyotes hunted close and exchanged yips, and from somewhere farther off a screen door slammed open and shut in the wind. The night air was warm and smelled sweet of prairie grass and night-blooming wildflowers.

  “Going somewhere, caballeros?”

  A man’s voice behind them made Buttons and Red stop dead in their tracks.

  “On your way to visit the doctor, perhaps?” the man said. “You are sick, maybe so.”

  Buttons turned slowly, his hand well away from his gun. He immediately saw that the elegant and beautifully dressed vaquero who faced him also had his Colt holstered. That spoke of confidence. Buttons carefully raised his gun hand to the star on his chest and pointed to it. “Deputy Sheriff Muldoon,” he said. “I’m a driver for the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company and the law around these parts.” Then, out of the corner of his mouth, “Turn around, Red, damnit.”

  Red did as he was told and the vaquero said, “I am Manuel Alejandro Carlos Garcia. I ride for the Stark Cattle Company.”

  “Right pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Buttons said. “This feller here is Re
d Ryan, a well-armed and determined stage messenger and a man who’s helping out the law.”

  “Why are you here?” Garcia said.

  Red said, “I suspect for the same reason you are.”

  “And that is?” Garcia said.

  “I think Della Stark told you to protect Dr. Ben Bradford from harm. Why else would you be here at this time of night?”

  The vaquero visibly relaxed. “Miss Stark and the doctor are enamorado . . . much in love.”

  “But her father disapproves,” Red said.

  An expressive shrug, then, “But Mr. Stark is not here, and so I take my orders from Miss Della,” Garcia said.

  “Red Ryan here says the assassins could strike tonight,” Buttons said. “He says they’re disguised as holy monks.”

  Garcia shrugged a second time. “Some monks are holy, some are not. A monk is a man like any other.”

  “I believe they are gunmen in the guise of monks,” Red said. Then, frowning. “Manuel Garcia . . . Manuel Garcia . . . hey, were you the Manuel Garcia in Bandera that time?”

  “What time?” Garcia said, smiling. “I have been in Bandera on many occasions.”

  “Yeah, now I remember,” Buttons said. “As I recollect you went after Pug Sutton and his Rocking-T drovers in the Golden Garter saloon up on the Medina.”

  “I went after the reward,” Garcia said. “Ten thousand dollars for all five, dead or alive.”

  “Them boys played hob in some Mexican village, didn’t they?” Buttons said.

  Garcia said, “Yes, in the village of Majadillas. If rape and murder is playing hob.”

  “You shot all five,” Buttons said. “They say you had five cartridges in that there fancy Colt you’re packing and didn’t have to reload.”

  Garcia smiled. “They say many things. It wasn’t this Colt, but another, and I had a round in all six chambers. It took two shots to drop Sutton. He was a big man, heavy in the belly.”

  “They fired back?” Red said.

  “Yes, they did, and they got their work in quite well. I was hit twice, but I lived and they died.”

  “And you got the ten thousand, huh?” Buttons said.

  “No, I did not. The bodies lay out in the sun for so long, they were unrecognizable by the time the Texas Rangers got there. They said they would not pay me for rotted corpses that could be anybody. And, of course, by then the traps of the dead men had been stolen and no one could identify them.”

  “Too bad,” Buttons said. “You were shot twice for nothing.”

  “I avenged the village of Majadillas,” Garcia said. “That was reward enough.”

  Lightning shimmered in the sky to the north followed by the sound of distant thunder.

  “A storm coming up,” Red said. “Buttons, maybe we should go impose on Doc Bradford’s hospitality.”

  “Red, I can’t take this seriously,” Buttons said, shaking his head. “Nobody starts a gunfight in a thunderstorm, even holy monks. I’m plum tuckered, and I’m headed back to the hotel.”

  “How about you, Garcia?” Red said.

  “Miss Della ordered me to guard the doctor, and that’s what I’ll do,” the vaquero said.

  Lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled louder.

  “Then we’ll guard him indoors where there’s shelter and hot coffee,” Red said.

  “You expect trouble?” Garcia said.

  “Yeah, I do, and it could come soon.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” Garcia said.

  “You two suit yourselves,” Buttons said. “But I think it’s a godawful waste of time.”

  He turned and headed toward the Alpenrose, looked back, grinned, shook his head, and walked into glimmering darkness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Rain pattered on Red Ryan’s plug hat as he knocked on Dr. Bradford’s door.

  Then Chris Mercer’s authoritative voice came from within. “Who is it? State your intentions.”

  “It’s me, Ryan, and one other seeking refuge from the storm.”

  “Ryan, when I open this door if it ain’t you, I’ll drill you square,” Mercer said.

  “It’s me. Who the heck else would be out this time of night on what could turn out to be a wild-goose chase?”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “A feller by the name of Manuel Garcia.”

  “Bandera Manuel Garcia?”

  “None other.”

  “All right, then if I see any fancy moves, Ryan, I’ll shoot Garcia first and then you.”

  “Right neighborly of you, Mercer,” Red said. “Now open the damn door.”

  Mercer opened the door and ushered in Red and Garcia, and with them a sizzling flash and a banging bellow of thunder.

  “That’s the way to make an entrance,” Mercer said after the din had passed.

  “Where’s the doc?” Red said.

  “Asleep, or at least he was until you brought the thunderstorm,” Mercer said. “Into the parlor with you. This way.”

  He led Red and Garcia into the lamplit room and then Mercer backed off several steps and said, “No offense, Garcia, but unbuckle that pistol belt and lay it on the table over there by the window. Real slow now. We got all night. Nothing quick and nothing fancy.”

  Garcia glanced at the British Bulldog in Mercer’s waistband, smiled and said. “No offense taken.” He shucked the gunbelt with its holstered Colt and laid it on the table.

  “I got nothing against you, Garcia,” Mercer said. “But you made a name for yourself in Bandera, and I get uncomfortable around pistoleros.”

  “Heck, Mercer, you’re one yourself,” Red said.

  “I was one, you mean,” the little man said. “I haven’t fired a pistol in years. Pistoleros are only pistoleros because they keep on shooting.”

  A blinking, sleepy-eyed figure filled the parlor doorway. Dr. Ben Bradford wore a long white nightgown and a sleeping cap and Red figured he must be the most square-toed man in a square-toed town. What did Della Stark see in him?

  “Mr. Mercer, I heard voices,” he said. “And I see we have patients . . . or guests.”

  “Doc, the ranny with the red hair and plug hat is Red Ryan, a shotgun messenger and friend of Miss Augusta Addington,” Mercer said. “The other is Manuel Garcia . . .”

  “A vaquero for the Stark Cattle Company,” Garcia said.

  “Gideon Stark’s spread?” Bradford said.

  “Yes. That’s the one.” Garcia said.

  “Are you here to kill me?” the doctor said.

  “No, I’m here under orders from Miss Della,” Garcia said. “I am to ride herd on you and protect you from harm.”

  “And Mr. Ryan, you’re here for the same reason?” Bradford said.

  “I think an attempt may be made on your life tonight by men disguised as monks,” Red said. “Yes, that’s why I’m with you.”

  The doctor managed a weak smile. “Then I seem to be well-protected. But monks? One of them is a patient. He has an ulcer.”

  “Doctor, Augusta Addington is a Pinkerton, and she plans to get Sheriff Ritter to arrest the four killers this morning. I don’t think that’s gonna happen. They’re professionals, and they came here to test your defenses. I think they’ll return in force, and I think it will be tonight.”

  “Monks . . . I can scarcely believe it,” Bradford said.

  “Well, it’s happened,” Red said.

  The doctor looked at Red and said, “Thank you for being here. If I was alone, they’d kill me for sure.”

  Red nodded. “You got me and Garcia.” He nodded in Mercer’s direction. “I don’t put any store in the drunk. He’s a grasshopper, liable to jump one way as another.”

  It was a measure of Bradford’s agitated state of mind that he let that go and said, “Should I join you in this all-night vigil? I have a revolver.”

  “No, go back to bed, Doctor,” Red said. “If we need you, we’ll get you up.”

  “I am somewhat tired,” Bradford said. “It’s been a long day.”


  “Then go catch some shut-eye,” Red said.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen and bread and ham for sandwiches,” Bradford said. “If you get hungry, help yourselves.”

  * * *

  Buttons Muldoon saw the dim outline of a woman sitting in the swing that hung from the rear rafters of the Alpenrose porch, the unmistakable tall, elegant shape of Augusta Addington.

  “Good evening Mr. Muldoon,” she said. “Or should I say Deputy Muldoon?”

  “I won’t be a deputy much longer,” Buttons said. “Me and Ritter are nowhere near catching the killer of the whiskey drummer.” He shook his head. “Whiskey drummer murdered. What a damned waste.”

  “You’re up late,” Augusta said.

  Buttons said, “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “I don’t want to oversleep,” Augusta said. “Early in the morning, I’ll demand that Sheriff Ritter make an arrest.”

  “The holy monks,” Buttons said, smiling.

  “Yes, the holy monks.” Augusta said. Then, after a silence, “Red asked me to marry him. That’s also keeping me awake.”

  Buttons kept his surprise to a minimum. “And did you accept?”

  “No. I’m thinking about it,” Augusta said. “Have you known Red for a long time?”

  “Time enough.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “What do you want to know?” Buttons said.

  Augusta smiled. “I guess I want to know if he’ll make a good husband.”

  “Red has frequented bawdy houses and is fond of fancy women.”

  “Go on.”

  “He sometimes drinks rye whiskey to excess.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s foolish with money. If he has a dollar in his pocket, he can’t wait to spend it. You sure you want to hear more?”

  “Go on.”

  “He can cuss like a drunken sailor.”

  “Go on,” Augusta said.

  “He’s never in his life lived within the sound of church bells.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sometimes he don’t bathe near enough.”

  “Go on.”

  Buttons sat beside Augusta and said, “Red Ryan comes out of the Western lands, and nothing and no one can ever change that. He’s a man forged by hardship and danger, and he’s often been alone, and all that has made him as strong and unbending as fine steel. He’s kind to women, children, and animals and will go out of his way to help a body in need. He’s one of the bravest men I know, and he will not be stampeded. I would trust him with my life and have done so too many times to count. He’s loyal to a fault and will never let you down. He lives on the wild side and needs a special kind of woman, a woman who can match his own honor, honesty, and courage . . . and before you ask . . . yes, Miss Addington, you are that kind of woman.”