Bullet for a Stranger Page 2

  “It could’ve killed something, depending where it bit,” Hannah said.

  She punched out the spent round from the Colt cylinder and replaced it with a cartridge from her belt. “Snakes and I just don’t get along. I once got bitten by a cobra in Macau and like to have died. Only the presence of a Portuguese army surgeon saved my life, but it was a damned close thing.” Her beautiful eyes lifted to Red’s face. “Are you all right? You had a nasty scare.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” Red said. He picked up his derby hat, rammed it onto his mop of unruly red hair, and then, his masculine pride exerting itself, he added, “I don’t scare real easy.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you don’t,” Hannah said, smiling slightly.

  “Miss Huckabee don’t scare worth a damn, but she very afraid of snakes,” Mr. Chang said.

  “I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Chang,” Hannah said, frowning. “Sometimes you will belabor the point. I’m sure it’s a Chinese thing.”

  She rose and picked up the still-writhing diamondback and held it high for Red and Buttons to see. “Even minus the head, he’s a good four foot long,” the girl said. “Anyone want the rattle? No?” She tossed the snake away and smiled. “I think that’s enough excitement for one day, don’t you?”

  “Hell, it’s more than enough for me,” Buttons said. “I don’t cotton to snakes, either.”

  “And I second that,” Red said. Then, “Buttons, let’s cut a trail.”

  “Suits me just fine,” Buttons said. He climbed into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins of the resting team.

  As Red gathered up the blanket and the food that hadn’t been eaten, Hannah stepped beside him and said, “I’d be most grateful if you’d take me and Mr. Chang to Fort Concho with you. Our balloon is ruined, and the burner was lost overboard during the storm.”

  “Well, we can’t leave you here to starve,” Red said. “I was about to suggest that you come with us as far as Fort Concho.”

  Buttons looked down from his high perch and said, “Miss Huckabee, it’s the policy of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and express Company that passengers may be picked up along the route if there is room within and said passengers have the necessary coin for the fare.”

  “I can pay,” Hannah said.

  “Buttons, she saved my life,” Red said.

  “I know she did. But company policy is company policy, Red. You know that, because you’re always quoting it. Miss Huckabee, the fare to Fort Concho will be fifty dollars for you and half that for the Chinee, since he doesn’t take up much room. Meals for the next two days included, of course.”

  “That will be quite satisfactory,” Hannah said. “Red, if you would help me with my trunks?”

  “Of course,” Red said. “And please excuse Buttons. He’s a die-hard company man.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Buttons said.

  Mr. Chang stepped in front of Red, bowed, and said, “Lady saved gentleman’s life. Gentleman must repay with life for a life.”

  Red grinned. “Well then, I reckon taking Miss Huckabee to Fort Concho is payment enough.”

  Mr. Chang nodded, unsmiling. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  Chapter Two

  The man at the open door of the Pink Pearl saloon in San Angelo turned to the patrons inside and said, “Well, Brack Cooley is on the street.”

  “The fun begins,” a brunette girl in a short, scarlet dress and fishnet stockings said, as she and two dozen other men and women crowded into the doorway.

  The sun was high in the sky, and the dusty town was oppressively hot. A yellow dog, sensing trouble, slunk from the boardwalk and crawled under the saloon.

  “Where’s Frank Pickett?” the bartender yelled. “Did he show?”

  “Not yet,” a man answered. Then, after a pause, “But ol’ Brack is standing outside the hotel, and he’s called Frank out. Man, he looks like he’s loaded for bear.”

  A tall, slender man, expensively dressed, a diamond stickpin in his cravat, rose from a table, leaving two young companions, and stepped to the bar. In an exquisite English accent, he said, “Tell me, my good man, is Brack Cooley as dangerous as his reputation claims he is?”

  The bartender, a florid-faced Irishman with no love for the English, looked his inquisitor up and down with considerable distaste and then said, “He’s a known man-killer. How dangerous is that?”

  “I don’t know,” the Englishman said. “You tell me.”

  The bartender ignored that last and his eyes moved to the door. “Is Frank in the street yet?”

  “No, Tom,” a man said. “I’ll tell you when.”

  His hands busy polishing a glass, the bartender said to the Englishman, “Brack Cooley has killed two dozen men, or so they say. Me, I think he’s probably done for more than that. He killed the three Simpson brothers that time in San Antone, picked them off one by one as they came at him in a hallway of the Red Garter cathouse. Shot a whore by mistake as well, but she recovered.”

  “In Texas, Mr. Cooley is what’s called a bounty hunter?” the Englishman said. “Isn’t that the case?”

  “Bounty hunter. Hired killer. Lawman. Brack does it all. He’s what you might call a jack of all trades.”

  “And who is Frank Pickett?”

  “A local hard case and sometimes cattle rustler. He has a reputation as a gunman here in Tom Green County, but I don’t know that he’s shot anybody. He’s got a two-hundred-dollar bounty on his head for lifting cows, and that’s why Cooley is here.”

  The Englishman smirked. “Not much of a bounty, is it?”

  “Times are hard,” the bartender said.

  The man at the door yelled, “Tom, quick! Frank’s walked out of the hotel. And he’s wearing both his guns.”

  The bartender quickly crossed the floor and walked onto the porch. The Englishman followed.

  Brack Cooley raised his left hand, palm forward, as though fending off Pickett. “Frank,” he yelled, “I’m taking you in for the reward on your sorry hide. What’s it to be? Will you come quietly, or do we go to the gun? State your intentions.”

  To the delight of the onlookers, Pickett, a short, towheaded man missing his two front teeth, stepped off the hotel porch and opened fire as soon as his boots hit the street. He got off three fast shots, all of them wild, one round so errant that it splintered into the saloon doorway and precipitated a lively stampede back inside by most of the spectators. The Englishman and the bartender were among those who remained, and they saw Brack Cooley raise his revolver to eye level and fire. At a distance of twenty yards, the bounty hunter needed only one shot. Pickett dropped dead without a sound, a bullet hole blossoming like an opening rose smack in the middle of his low forehead.

  As Pickett hit the dirt, Cooley holstered his gun and then looked around him at the people on the boardwalks. “He was notified,” he said. “Anybody here say he wasn’t?”

  A man with a gray hair and a town marshal’s star on his vest stepped into the street and said, “It was self-defense. I seen it all, Brack.”

  “Just so you know it was legal and aboveboard,” Cooley said. He scowled at the frightened lawman. “Who pays the bounty? Speak up, now.”

  “County sheriff, Brack,” the marshal said.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s gone fishing, but he said he’ll be back before nightfall.”

  Cooley thought that through and then said, “I’ll wait.”

  A tall, black-haired man with eyes the color of a winter mist, Cooley grabbed the dead man by the collar of his coat and dragged him to the front of the hotel, where Pickett’s paint pony stood hipshot at the hitching rail. Displaying considerable strength, Cooley threw the little man across his saddle and then tied the horse beside his own waiting mount outside the Pink Pearl.

  He looked at the crowd on the saloon porch and said, “You heard the marshal. It was self-defense. Anybody see it different?”

  “Marshal Lewis called it as he saw it,
Brack,” the bartender said. “Pickett fired first and missed with three shots. Nobody is blaming you.”

  A mixologist being a highly respected member of any western community, there were no dissenting voices.

  “So be it,” Cooley said. “Now, who will buy me a drink?”

  “I’d be honored, sir.”

  The gunman turned and saw a tall, thin man dressed in a black cutaway morning coat, claret-colored vest, and high-collared shirt and cravat. He wore a top hat and a bemused expression, as though the rough-hewn Cooley was an exotic creature beyond his understanding.

  “And who are you?” the gunman said.

  The tall man smiled. “Someone with your well-being in mind who wishes to place you in his employ. But first a private word with you, Mr. Cooley, if you will.”

  Cooley shrugged. “Sure.” Then, “Are you heeled?”

  “No.” The tall man didn’t elaborate. But he was obviously a gentleman, and his word was enough.

  Cooley stepped closer to the Englishman. “Talk,” he said. “I want to hear about my well-being an’ all.”

  “I want you to kill a man, Mr. Cooley.”

  “I’ve done that before. Who’s the man? Is he a gun?”

  “I presume you mean has he practiced with arms?”

  “I mean is he a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it will cost you more for the kill. If the mark is a shootist, I run a higher risk, and in my profession high risks don’t come cheap.”

  “The mark, as you call him, is a yellow-bellied coward, Mr. Cooley. Does that make a difference?”

  The gunman thought about that, his black eyes on the Englishman’s face. Then he said, “Hell, mister, if he’s a coward, why don’t you shoot him your ownself?”

  The tall man’s face stiffened. “Because I don’t want to dirty my hands.”

  “But you want me to dirty mine?”

  “You can wash your hands later. No matter how many times I washed my hands they would always be stained with a coward’s blood, and I could not live with that. I assure you that you’ll be paid well for your trouble, Mr. Cooley.”

  “How well?”

  “Five hundred dollars now. Another five when the job is done.”

  The gunman whistled through his teeth. “Around these parts, that’s top dollar.”

  “Around these parts, you’re supposed to be the top man. Top dollar for the top man, Mr. Cooley.”

  “There’s no supposed to be about it. I am the top man, the fastest and best there is, around these parts or around any other.”

  “Then do we have a deal? Speak up now, or I’ll be forced to find someone else.”

  “Deal,” Cooley said, sticking out his hand.

  The Englishman pretended not to see it. He said, “My name is Captain Rupert Bentley-Foulkes, formerly of the British army. You will meet my associates inside, former lieutenants Granville Wood and John Allerton. You will accompany us with all due haste to Fort Concho.”

  “When?” Cooley said.

  “Why, now, of course.”

  “Well, maybe tomorrow,” Cooley said. “I’ve got a bounty to collect tonight.”

  Bentley-Foulkes reached inside his coat and produced his wallet. He took out some bills and said, “Five hundred dollars, Mr. Cooley. Now.”

  The gunman looked at the money, shrugged, and tipped Pickett’s body out of the saddle. The corpse thudded onto the ground, and Cooley said, “I saw a livery stable close. I’ll sell this here hoss and saddle, and then we’ll leave.”

  “As you wish,” the Englishman said. “Just don’t haggle too long, there’s a good chap.”

  Chapter Three

  “I’m an adventuress, Colonel,” Hannah Huckabee said. “I have places to go, a balloon to fly. The last thing I want is to kick my heels around at Fort Concho for the next month.”

  Colonel Ben Grierson was apologetic but firm. “I’m sorry, but providing you with room and board is the best I can do. We just battled an Apache outbreak and the telegraph lines are still cut in dozens of places. Wiring your accountants in New York is out of the question, at least for a while.”

  “Maybe you can get the stuff you need right here in San Angelo,” Red Ryan said. “I know for a fact they have a good hardware store.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Red, I don’t think you understand. I need a new balloon, burner, hydrogen cylinders, and most of all, money,” she said. “I can’t find that in San Angelo.”

  “Lady, you couldn’t find that in all of Texas,” Buttons Muldoon said.

  “Mr. Muldoon is right, and I don’t know what to suggest, Miss Huckabee,” Grierson said. “I’m at a loss.” He rose from his chair and walked to a map of the state that hung on a wall. “And there’s a further complication.” The colonel looked at Red. “This will interest you, Mr. Ryan, and you too, Mr. Muldoon.”

  “Not more Apaches, I hope, Colonel,” Buttons said. “I had enough of them the last time.”

  “Worse than that, or at least just as bad. The word I get from the Texas Rangers is that Dave Winter has moved up from the border.” Colonel Grierson swept his hand across the map, taking in the country to the southeast of Fort Concho. “He’s currently operating in this area and already playing hob.”

  “Hell, Colonel, that takes in most of my stage route,” Buttons said.

  “Indeed, it does,” Grierson said. “And the ranger here at the post says Winter has about twenty hard cases with him and he’s on a rampage. Homesteads have been looted and burned, people murdered, and a posse out of Houston was ambushed with three dead and five wounded before the survivors broke off the fight. A deputy U.S. Marshal was among the dead. From what the ranger said, there were no casualties on Winter’s side.”

  “But I was told that the ranger has two prisoners in the stockade, Colonel,” Buttons said. “Any chance that those are a couple of Winter’s boys?”

  “No such luck. They’re poor Mexican farmers from a village to the southwest of here,” Grierson said. “The ranger arrested them after they crossed the border from the New Mexico Territory.”

  Hannah Huckabee said, “Good heavens, Colonel Grierson, what did they do in the territory? Steal somebody’s chickens?”

  A slight smile touched the colonel’s lips. “They stole a Madonna from a mission chapel on the Pecos. Caught red-handed with her, I’m told.” It was obvious from the girl’s expression that she was drawing a blank, and Grierson said, “During the recent Indian troubles, the Mexicans fled their village and the Apaches then burned their adobes and killed off their livestock, leaving them in even greater poverty, if that was possible.”

  “So, a couple of farmers stole to make ends meet,” Hannah said.

  “It’s not quite that simple,” the colonel said. “Ranger Tim Adams told me that a preacher passed though the village and told the people that just across the New Mexico border the peons were prospering and that they should go there with their families. He happened to mention a village on the Pecos that was particularly thriving, thanks to their black Madonna, Nuestra Senora del Alba Luz.”

  “Our Lady of the Dawn Light,” Hannah said. She smiled. “I have some Spanish. I once had a sword-fighting adventure at the Castle of Catalina in Cádiz.”

  “You must tell me about it sometime,” Grierson said. “Well, our two farmers decided that stealing such a powerful Madonna and bringing her back to their own village was a good idea, because she would bring prosperity. They left with a few tortillas and a donkey for hauling the statue and did what they set out to do.”

  “They stole it,” Red Ryan said.

  “Yes, they stole it out of a chapel and now the New Mexican villagers want their Madonna back and the two thieving Texas peons hanged,” the colonel said.

  “Where is the Madonna now?” Hannah said.

  “Miss Huckabee always interested in the Madonna,” Mr. Chang said. “She want to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Is that so? Well, Ranger Adams has her in custody.
He says she’s evidence.” Colonel Grierson put his hand on Buttons’s shoulder and said, “And now I have bad news for you, Mr. Muldoon.”

  Buttons raised a hairy eyebrow. “I hate bad news, Colonel. But lay it on me.”

  “Ranger Adams plans to commandeer the Patterson stage to transport the Mexicans and the Madonna to Austin, where his prisoners will stand trial for theft and possibly sacrilege,” the colonel said.

  Buttons was indignant. “He can’t do that, it’s against company policy.”

  “Yes, he can,” Grierson said. “But to ease your pain, Buttons, he’ll book himself and his prisoners as passengers.”

  “How does he plan to pay?” Red said. “It’s two hundred miles to Austin.”

  “And every mile of it out of our way,” Buttons said.

  “My guess is that he’ll give you a ranger IOU,” the colonel said.

  “Colonel, have you ever tried to collect an IOU from the Texas Rangers?” Red said.

  “No, but I understand it’s difficult.”

  “Difficult?” Buttons said. “It’s impossible. The rangers never have any money. They spend it all on ammunition.”

  “You’d better speak to Ranger Adams about that, I’m afraid,” Grierson said.

  “And what about the coward?” Buttons said. “What’s his name? John Latimer.”

  The officer’s face stiffened. “What about him?”

  “The Patterson stage company was contracted to carry only one passenger . . . and he’s the coward,” Buttons said.

  “Yes, I know that,” Grierson said. “As far as I’m aware, that bill will be paid by the British legation in Washington.”

  “They’re paying for the whole coach and one coward, Colonel,” Buttons said. “They won’t want a couple of Mexican Madonna thieves in there with him.”

  “That’s a matter you’ll have to take up with the British government, Mr. Muldoon,” Grierson said. “I’m sure they’ll be understanding.”

  Buttons shook his head. “Well, if this don’t beat all. And here I thought driving a yellow-belly was bad enough. Now I’m stuck with a ranger and two Madonna thieves.”