A Quiet, Little Town Page 3

  “Yes, yes, do what you must,” Walzer said, his gaze turned away from Forester’s dead face. He threw up his arms in a theatrical gesture and said, “Now, just . . . just . . . get him out of here.”

  “Right-o, guv,” Watkins said. Then, smiling, “The gentleman is a long way from Texas, ain’t he?”

  “I rather fancy that right about now he’s a long way from anywhere,” Ernest Walzer said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Red Ryan and Patrick “Buttons” Muldoon were being read to from the book by a little banty rooster in high-heeled boots and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “On the route to the Perdinales River there’s to be no cussin’, no drinkin’, and no loose talk about fancy women,” Abe Patterson said. “Keep a solemn countenance at all times and try to look like you’ve said a prayer at least once in your lives. Remember the good name of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company is at stake.”

  “Heck, Mr. Patterson, we’ve had holy rollers as passengers before,” Buttons said. “I never heard one of ’em complain.” He thought about that for a moment and said, “Well, they done plenty of complaining, but I never heard one grumble about me and Red cussin’ an’ sich.”

  “These four ain’t your regular sin busters,” Patterson said. “They’re bona fide monks, wear the robe and sandals and everything. They’re headed for a mission north of the Perdinales about twenty miles due east of Fredericksburg, and that’s where you’ll take them.”

  “I don’t recollect a mission in that part of the country,” Buttons said. “What about you, Red?”

  “It sure don’t ring a bell with me,” Red Ryan said. “There’s a couple of big ranches in that neck of the woods, but I never heard tell of a mission.”

  “Only one of them monks speaks English, sounds like an Irishman to me,” Patterson said. “He says he and his brothers—they ain’t real brothers but that’s what them monk fellers call each other—plan to start a mission and to start things off, they got a holy relic with them.”

  “What’s a holy relic?” Red said.

  Patterson shook his head. “Ryan, you’re some kind of heathen, ain’t you?’

  “Buttons, you ever hear tell of a holy relic?” Red said.

  “No, I never did,” Buttons said. “I recollect one time an old mountain man calling himself a relic, but he wasn’t holy or nothing like that.”

  “I declare, damned ungodly pagans, both of you,” Patterson said. “A holy relic is something that belonged to a saint, like his skull or a lock of his hair or something. Well, one of the monks is a German, and he carries a long leather case with him and the Irishman claims it’s the staff Moses carried when he led the chosen people across the desert to the Promised Land. Heck, it’s all there in the Bible. Read about it sometime.”

  Abe Patterson’s pale blue eyes went to the window of his office, his interest caught by a cavalry patrol out of Fort Concho that jangled past, eight black troopers and a beardless white officer who looked all of sixteen years old. The little man leaned forward in his chair and growled like a terrier that’s just seen a rat. “Damned Apaches!” He turned to Buttons and Red. “You boys just arrived. Maybe you ain’t heard that the Mescalero and Lipan are out.”

  “We heard, boss,” Buttons said. “How many you figure?”

  “Thirty or so, all young bucks, and they’re playing hob,” Patterson said. “They crossed the New Mexican border sometime in the past month and the army is already bringing in settlers, them that will come. I just heard that the savages murdered and scalped three tin pans down on the San Saba and there’s talk of a burned ranch house at Rock Spring and a woman kidnapped. But I don’t know if that’s true or not.”

  “Them monk fellers aware of all this?” Buttons said.

  “Yeah, they are,” Patterson said. “But the Irishman said God will protect them.”

  “Maybe God’s never met up with thirty Apache bucks on the prod afore,” Red said.

  “Well, it’s a big country,” Patterson said. “You probably won’t even see an Apache.”

  “Seems like we’ve heard that before,” Buttons said.

  “A few times,” Red said.

  Patterson stabbed a forefinger at his shotgun guard. “Listen, Ryan, if you do meet up with them savages, just stand up in the coach, beat your chest, and say, ‘I’m a representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company.’ That will send them high-tailing it pretty damned quick.”

  Buttons and Red exchanged glances, and Red said, “Boss, we’ll surely keep that in mind.”

  “Then see you do,” Patterson said. “I’m tired of giving you good advice that you don’t follow. When you boys pull out at first light tomorrow morning, I think I can get you an army escort as far as the San Saba and maybe further. We’ll see. In any case, our new station has opened at Kickapoo Springs, and I hired a man named Jim Moore to manage the place. He’ll see you all right for a fresh team and grub.”

  “Here, is that the Fighting Jim Moore from down old Fort Leaton way?” Buttons said. “He’s got a wife that keeps right poorly and two simple sons?”

  “The same,” Abe Patterson said. “Moore was a blacksmith for Charlie Goodnight and then became a Texas Ranger for a spell. He’s the one that killed Arch Benson, the Sulphur River Kid, in Amarillo that time.”

  “I recollect being told about that fight,” Buttons said. “I remember Moore as a big man, favors his left leg some.”

  “That’s him,” Patterson said. “He told me he caught a bullet in that leg during a shooting scrape in El Paso and has limped on it ever since.”

  “A hard, unforgiving man is Jim Moore,” Buttons said.

  “I know,” Patterson said. “That’s why I hired him.”

  The office door opened and a tall, lanky drink of water with a hard-boned face and quick black eyes stepped into the office. Pete Crane drove for Abe Patterson, and a sea of bad blood lay between him and Red Ryan. They went back a ways, and none of it was good.

  Crane greeted Patterson and Buttons Muldoon and then nodded coldly at Red. “Howdy, Ryan,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

  “At least a six-month,” Red said, tensing up little.

  “Took that long for my face and all to heal up and them two broken ribs you gave me,” Crane said.

  “You picked the fight, Pete,” Red said.

  “Maybe so, but you should’ve told me you’d been a professional booth fighter back in the day,” Crane said. “Keeping that to yourself was underhand and low down.”

  “A man accused of dealing from the bottom of the deck who then gets hit by a sneaky punch don’t have much time for polite conversation,” Red said.

  “If I’d knowed you’d been a professional bare-knuckle fighter I wouldn’t have punched you,” Crane said. “I was mad clean through that day in the saloon, but I wasn’t stupid. You compre what I’m telling you, Ryan?”

  Red smiled. “Sure I do. Next time I’ll tell that I was a prizefighter afore I pound you into the sawdust again.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Crane said. “It’s what’s called in Texas a common courtesy.”

  “Well now, that’s true blue of Ryan, ain’t it, Pete?” Abe Patterson said. “I mean, he says that next time he’ll tell you he made a living with his fists afore he cleans your clock. He spoke it right out like a white man, didn’t he?”

  Crane seemed unsure, but he said finally, “Yeah, I guess he did.”

  “Good. It’s water under the bridge,” Patterson said. “Let bygones be bygones, I always say, especially between two fellers who work for me.”

  “Truer words were never spoke,” Buttons Muldoon said. “Here, Pete, did you see the monks in town? A mighty strange sight in San Angelo, huh?”

  Crane mentally shrugged off Red’s treachery for the moment and said, “Yeah, I saw them.” He grinned. “And so did Stover Timms and Lem Harlan.”

  Abe Patterson’s weathered face twisted into a scowl. “Here, is that damned border trash inte
rfering with our passengers?”

  Crane was surprised. “Our passengers instead of just the passengers? Heck, the Patterson stage company is coming up in the world.” The driver read the irritation in his boss’s face and said, “Stover and Lem . . . the boys are just having a little fun with the padres about wearing them brown dresses an’ all, say they look like kinda ugly womenfolk.”

  “Until they’re delivered to their destination, the monks are under the protection of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage an Express Company,” Patterson said. He jumped up from his chair and shoved his hat on his head. “Buttons, Red, come with me, you too, Pete, and we’ll put an end to this tomfoolery.”

  “I’ll sit this one out, boss,” Crane said. “Timms and Harlan are friends of mine. Red, you step careful around them two. Stover is fast on the draw and shoot and Lem is faster. They call you, and you won’t even come close.”

  “There will be no shooting,” Patterson said as he headed for the door. “I’ll see to it that any man who pulls the iron in my presence gets hung.”

  “Or gets shot,” Red Ryan said, looking hard at Crane.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Maybe, and the local Concho Times newspaper’s account of the incident is not certain on this point, the teasing of the monks began as nothing more serious than some good-natured joshing. If that was indeed the case, the situation had escalated badly by the time Abe Patterson, Red Ryan, and Buttons Muldoon arrived on the scene. But one thing is certain, the blood-splashed horror that followed the occurrence, despite some claims of divine retribution, was directly a result of Stover Timms’s and Lem Harlan’s meanness and their desire to humiliate, hurt, and torment . . . and later their terrible deaths were not inflicted by the supernatural as some claimed, but by expert killers. At the time, the law wrote off their murders as the work of Apaches and only much later did Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon learn the truth.

  Timms and Harlan were known to the citizens and law of San Angelo as toughs who were suspects in a rash of unsolved robberies in the area and the recent murder of an unemployed laborer named either Reilly or Rollins who’d won two hundred and fifty dollars at the gaming tables the night he was killed. At a time in the West when diversions were welcomed, Timms and Harlan’s antics drew a crowd, some amused, a few scandalized, and all entertained.

  The monks stood with their backs against the front window of the Concho Valley Mercantile, a false-fronted building that stood on the corner of College and Randolph Streets next to the Real Note Saloon, a future haunt of Teddy Roosevelt.

  Stover Timms was a bearded man of medium height, dressed in whatever cast-off clothing he could throw together. He looked shabby and dirty, and his eyes were snake-yellow and ugly. He brandished a Remington revolver and ordered the monks to hike up their robes and dance while Lem Harlan played a creditable rendition of Turkey in the Straw on his harmonica and some in the grinning crowd clapped in time to the music.

  The four monks, heads bowed, faces shadowed by their hoods, stood stock still, carpetbags at their feet, refusing to react to their tormentors. That seemed to incense Timms, who thumbed off a couple of shots and splintered the boardwalk inches from their bare toes.

  “Dance!” he yelled. “Damn you, cut a caper for the folks.”

  The monks stood in complete silence, motionless as mourners at a graveside, and a hush fell over the crowd as though they feared a killing.

  Then a roar of anger shattered the quiet as Abe Patterson arrived on the scene like the wrath of God.

  * * *

  “Damn you, holster the iron, or I’ll shoot you down like a mad dog,” Patterson yelled.

  Stover Timms turned on him, his face twisted, the Remington at waist level. But then his eyes registered the scene in front of him and his resolve faltered . . . fast . . .

  Patterson, as salty as they come, had been a lawman for a spell and he’d shot and hung more than his fair share. His Colt was up, hammer back and ready. He’d shoot to kill and Timms knew it. But what gave the ruffian pause, and there were those in the crowd who later testified to this, was the fact that Patterson was flanked by Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon, known men who were not to be trifled with. Timms was gun handy, but he was no fool. Ryan had a rep as a pistolero that few could match on the draw and shoot, and Muldoon was a stocky, square-shaped man who’d take his hits and keep on a-coming.

  Timms found his voice right quick. And he sugared it over with a sickly smile.

  “We was only havin’ some fun, Mr. Patterson,” he said. “Giving the padres a big ol’ Texas welcome to San Angelo was what we was doing. No harm done.”

  “Shooting at a man’s feet to make him dance is not a Texas welcome,” Patterson said. “It’s no kind of welcome at all. Those men are holy monks, given to doing all kinds of good works, but more importantly they’re fare-paying passengers of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company and under my personal protection.” The little man flourished his revolver. “Now be off with you or do you want to get shot in the belly?” he said. “The choice is yours.”

  Timms hesitated, but Harlan was out of it, his arms raised so high at his sides he looked as though he was about to take off on a flight over the Concho River. Red Ryan ignored Harlan, but said to Timms, “Mr. Patterson asked you a question. Do you want gut shot or not?”

  Timms made up his mind and put on a show of holstering his gun. “It’s getting to it that a man can’t have any fun in San Angelo anymore.”

  Red nodded. “Civilization is catching up with you, Timms.”

  “Yeah, it is. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

  It was then that Red Ryan saw something strange, an occurrence so sinister that it gave him a chill. At precisely the same moment, the same instant, the four monks raised their heads and stared at Stover Timms. Red couldn’t see the faces under the hoods, but he knew their eyes were on the badman . . . and so did Timms. A criminal with the instincts of a lobo wolf, as the monkish stares scalded him, his expression changed from defiance to one of unease.

  “Lem, let’s go drink whiskey,” he said. “I don’t like the company here.”

  “Feeling’s mutual,” Red Ryan said. “Timms, you do have a way of stinking up the place.”

  The man nodded. “I’ll remember that, Ryan,” he said. His snake grin was repulsive as he tapped the handle of his revolver. “And I remember things real good.”

  The monks shuffled away, their heads lowered, sandals slapping along the boardwalk.

  Buttons Muldoon watched Simms and Harlan mount up and leave and said, “You’ve made an enemy, Red. You’ll have to kill that ranny one day.”

  “Could be,” Red said. His attention was not on Buttons but on the beautiful, flame-haired woman with startling green eyes walking toward Abe Patterson.

  She was tall, slim, and shapely, filling out her blue riding habit in all the right places, and over the dress she wore a light, canvas duster designed for travel. Her lustrous hair was piled up under a veiled top hat and, unusual for that time, a large leather bag closed with brass buckles hung by a wide strap from her left shoulder. As she walked, the swirl of her skirts revealed ankle-length, high-heeled boots. She looked to be in her late twenties, and the years had not been hard on her.

  Red Ryan thought the woman was stunning. Ditto for Buttons Muldoon . . . but Abe Patterson saw only dollar signs, a way to help fill a stage that was booked for four paying passengers but could hold six and eight at a pinch.

  “And what can I do for you, young lady?” he said, smiling, as the woman stopped in front of him.

  “I take it that you are Mr. Patterson,” the woman said. Her voice was light, melodious but oddly commanding. She was a little too angular, like a well-bred racehorse, to pass as a Texas belle, Red decided. Her accent was definitely Yankee with a very slight nasally tone, and she was almighty handsome in a high-cheekboned way, not pretty.

  “And you’ve been told correctly, dear lady,” Patterson said. “I am indeed Abe Patt
erson of the Abe Patterson and son Stage and Express Company.”

  The woman stuck out a gloved hand. “And I am Augusta Addington of the Philadelphia and New Orleans Addingtons. How do you do?”

  “I’m doing just fine,” Patterson said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I wish to book passage on the stage as far as Fredericksburg, where I am taking up a teaching post,” Augusta said. “Do you have a vacancy?”

  “By all means,” Patterson said, bowing slightly. “I will make space just for you.” He cast an experienced eye over the woman. Riding habit . . . expensive. Top hat . . . expensive. Ankle boots . . . expensive. Gloves . . . expensive. Leather bag . . . expensive. Overall impression . . . well-to-do, upper-class lady with money in the bank.

  “That will be two hundred dollars for the one-way fare, dear lady,” Patterson said. “But that includes grub, I mean meals, and, where needed, overnight stays at one of the luxurious Patterson stage stations. A comfortable journey is assured when you book with Patterson.” He waved a hand. “This is your driver . . .”

  A bow then, “Patrick Muldoon, ma’am, at your service.”

  “And your shotgun messenger to ensure a safe passage. . .”

  Red touched the brim of his plug hat. “Red Ryan, ma’am, of the Cow Horn Creek and Brazos River Ryans.”

  Patterson angled Red a hard look and then beamed. “These are two of my most virtuous employees, churchgoing members of the stagecoaching fraternity. Whiskey ne’er touches their lips nor does a cussword ever linger on their tongues. They shy clear of fancy women and saloons and consider faro, poker, and chuck-a-luck to be the pastimes of the devil.” He gave Buttons and Red a sidelong glance. “Ain’t that right, boys?”

  “Right as rain, boss,” Buttons said. “Truer words was never spoke to a lady.”

  “My, my, I declare that I surely find myself in safe hands,” Augusta said. “The propriety of your employees is most singular, Mr. Patterson.”