A Quiet, Little Town Read online

  “Indeed it is, dear lady. I don’t expect my men to be paragons of virtue, but it helps if they are,” Patterson said. He blinked. “Like these two.”

  Red said, “Miss Addington, are you aware that the Apaches are out?”

  “Out?” The woman said. “Out where?”

  Red waved a hand. “Out there on the long grass. Thirty young bucks. No women or children with them, always a bad sign.”

  “Ahem,” Patterson said, staring at Red with dagger eyes. “You have nothing to fear, young lady. I assure you, the savages won’t interfere with the stage. They’ve been burned too many times in the past.”

  A brewer’s dray drawn by a matched pair of Percherons rumbled past, the beer barrels thumping, before Augusta spoke again. “Mr. Patterson, it is a matter of the greatest moment that I arrive in Fredericksburg within the week. I will not allow the Apaches to delay me.”

  “And nor shall you be delayed,” Patterson said. Then, after another sidelong glance at Buttons and Red, “These two stalwarts will see to that.”

  “You’ll reach your destination in good time, Miss Addington,” Buttons said. “Never fear.”

  “Then my mind is at rest,” Augusta said. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I feel the need for a little nap.”

  “We pull out at sunup,” Red said.

  “Sharp,” Buttons said.

  “He doesn’t mean sharp, he means sharpish,” Abe Patterson said. “No reason to rush, dear lady.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The railroad clock in the Gray Wolf Inn joined hands at midnight when saloon girl Addie Turnbull decided to take a stroll in the moonlight to walk off a pounding headache, the result of noise, smoke, constant pawing by the sporting crowd, and too much cheap champagne. She took Irving Street and headed toward the dark ribbon of the North Concho River, past the Rowdy Peacock Saloon and then the Silver Garter bawdy house. By the time Addie reached the lot where stood the timber framework of what would soon be a hardware store, her headache was what she later described to the law as “a sight better.”

  Then, her pale blue, myopic eyes popping, she saw what was hanging from a crossbeam of the construction and she screamed and screamed . . . and her headache suddenly got a heck of a sight worse.

  Game for any distraction, people spilled out of the saloons and brothels, and a gaping crowd quickly gathered, among them Police Constable Boone Sturdy, who glanced at the mutilated bodies of the dangling men and promptly threw up all the whiskey he’d drank that night and then green bile. When he recovered enough to address the horrified throng he said only, “My God. Oh, my God in heaven.”

  One soused rooster who sobered up fast would later tell the San Angelo Standard-Times that what he saw “was a sight not meant to be seen by a Christian man and was like to burn out my eyeballs.”

  * * *

  Abe Patterson, dressed only in a long gown and sleeping cap and in the highest state of agitation, ran along the hotel corridor and hammered on Red Ryan’s room door and then roused Buttons Muldoon. “Don’t you hear the screams and commotion?” he said. “I fear our monks may be in trouble again.”

  Buttons, wearing his hat and long johns, scratched his belly and said, “Where the heck are they?”

  “The Irishman told me they were planning to spend the night in prayer at the Church of the Immaculate Conception,” Patterson said. “We must ensure that they’re safe.”

  “Why would they do something like that?” Red said.

  “Because they’re holy monks,” Patterson said. “That’s what monks do. Now get dressed. We’re going to church.”

  * * *

  When Red Ryan and the others stepped onto the street outside the hotel, a youngster riding north on Irving Street reined in his galloping horse. “Apaches!” he yelled.

  “Where?” Abe Patterson said.

  The towheaded kid jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That way,” he said. “I’m going to Fort Concho for the soldiers.”

  “Wait!” Patterson yelled, but the kid was already gone, a cloud of dust trailing his gray nag. “Right,” he said. “Ryan, you go see what the Apache trouble is. Buttons, you come to the church with me. We’ll meet back at the hotel.”

  “You reckon the Apaches attacked the church?” Buttons said. “And maybe scalped them monks?”

  “Paying passengers, you mean. I don’t know, but I aim to find out,” Patterson said. “Red, you be careful. Apache bucks on the prod can be a handful, and they’ll fight in the dark if the notion takes them.”

  Red nodded. “I’m always careful around Apaches,” he said.

  * * *

  Red Ryan saw the crowd first, a cross section of the temporary and permanent residents of San Angelo, cattlemen, cowboys, gamblers, painted saloon girls rubbing shoulders with respectable matrons, hawk-eyed gunmen, businessmen, merchants, and the usual collection of young men on the make. Then Red saw what hung, head-down, from a crossbeam of a framed-up building, and wished to God he hadn’t.

  Stover Timms and Lem Harlan had been stripped naked, gutted, and hung by their ankles from the beam. Pink and purple coiled entrails spilled onto the ground below their dangling arms, and their entire faces and bodies were scarlet with blood. When Red looked closer, he saw that both men had been gagged with pieces of sacking, probably to stifle their death screams.

  Members of the local volunteer fire department, wearing brass helmets and black tunics, were tasked with cutting down the bodies, and a doctor and his nurse attended to hysterical women who’d swooned away in fright when they’d first beheld the scene or heard the subsequent dire warnings that bloodthirsty Apaches were playing hob in San Angelo and might be lurking anywhere.

  Red waited until the bodies of the dead men had been cut down and the undertaker and his assistants had packed what was left of them into pine boxes, including the bits and pieces. He walked to the scene of the crime, now lit by several guttering oil lamps. To his surprise, a woman was already there, examining the ground as had been his intention. To his surprise, he recognized Augusta Addington in the gloom, her nightclothes covered by her canvas duster, pale green slippers on her feet. She saw Red looking at her and smiled and said, “Firemen’s boots have tromped all over the place. There are no other tracks to be seen, Apache or otherwise.”

  Red said, “Miss Addington, do you always visit the scenes of killings, especially one like this?”

  “No, not always,” Augusta said. “But I do when there’s ones like this.”

  She sounded a little breathless, as though she’d been caught in the act of doing something she shouldn’t. Her thick auburn hair was tied back with a blue ribbon and her unfettered breasts were firm enough to mound the canvas of the duster, reinforcing Red’s opinion that she was one fine-looking woman.

  “So then, what are you doing here?” Red asked.

  “I could ask you the same question,” Augusta said.

  “Abe Patterson was worried about the four monks,” Red said. “They’ve never been around Apaches before.”

  “And where are my saintly fellow passengers?” Augusta said.

  “In church, praying.”

  “An all-night vigil?”

  “If vigil means saying prayers, then yeah, all night.”

  “Very devout of them,” Augusta said. “Apaches didn’t kill those two men.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Red said. For some reason he was irritated. What did Miss Augusta Addington of the Philadelphia and New Orleans Addingtons know about bronco Apaches?

  “Apaches don’t attack a town of this size with an army fort full of cavalry right on its doorstep,” Augusta said. “And if it was just a quick raid, why take time to disembowel two men and string them up from a downtown rafter?” Her beautiful eyes searched Red’s face. “That doesn’t make any sense, don’t you think, Mr. Ryan?”

  Red recognized the woman’s cool logic, but that only irritated him further.

  “Then you know all about Apaches, huh?” he said.

>   “I know nothing about Apaches,” Augusta said. “I’ve never even met one. But they’re men, and I know a lot about men.”

  “If it wasn’t Apaches, then who killed Stover Timms and Lem Harlan?” Red said. “They were tough men, quick on the draw and shoot and mean as curly wolves.”

  The woman smiled. “I guess they were unfortunate enough to run afoul of men who were a great deal meaner.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never did answer my question, Miss Addington,” Red said. “Why are you here?”

  “Curiosity,” Augusta said. “Nothing more.”

  “You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat.”

  The woman smiled. “Why would anyone want to kill me, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Nobody that I know would,” Red said. He also smiled.

  “In any case, I can take care of myself,” Augusta said. She reached into the pocket of the duster and produced a stubby, nickel-plated revolver with yellowed ivory grips. “This is a British Bulldog in .450 caliber, Mr. Ryan, a gift from my papa. I’m really quite proficient with it.”

  Red nodded. “I’m sure you are. It’s late, and since you’re a passenger of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company and I’m its representative . . .”

  “You’ll walk me back to the hotel,” Augusta said. “You are very gallant, Mr. Ryan. Now give me your arm.”

  * * *

  When Buttons and Abe Patterson met Red Ryan at the hotel, the only report they had to make was that the monks had spent most of the day in prayer and planned to continue their pious devotions overnight. Meanwhile, the army called out two full companies of cavalry and patrolled the streets of San Angelo until just before dawn and concluded that the Apaches had snuck into town, killed two citizens, and then left. Patrols would be sent out to track down the savages, and an entire regiment would remain on high alert until the culprits who did the actual killings were severely punished and the rest returned to the San Carlos.

  Red echoed the thoughts of Augusta Addington and said that he doubted Apaches had killed . . . he used the word slaughtered . . . Stover Timms and Lem Harlan. But nobody cared to listen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon rolled out of their beds before dawn and hitched up the six-horse team, including two young wheelers, the big, 1,250-pound horses next to the coach. They were the largest and most dependable of the team, but Buttons broke his customary morning silence to say that he’d be glad when he changed them. “Damn broncs are mean enough to kick me so high St. Peter could slap his brand on my ass.”

  Red shook his head. “Buttons, you can’t say damn or ass in front of them holy monks. Remember what Abe Patterson told us.”

  Buttons said, “All right then,” and aired out his lungs with a stream of profanity that lasted all of a full minute. He smiled. “There, all my best cusswords are out of my system.”

  Red was mightily impressed but said only, “I sure hope so. You just cussed enough to melt the ears off them monks and set fire to all the grass within ten yards of us.”

  “Damn right,” Buttons said. He slapped a hand to his mouth. “Heck, I done it again.”

  Ribbons of scarlet and jade cloud crimsoned the sky when Buttons drove the stage to the front of the hotel where his passengers were already waiting, including Augusta Addington, who looked more beautiful than a woman had a right to look that early in the morning. She wore her blue riding habit and top hat, but Red thought she’d changed her shirt to a white one with a standup, lace-trimmed collar that perfectly suited her slender neck. But she still wore the duster, and the big leather bag hung from her shoulder. Red wondered if the British Bulldog was still in her pocket. Probably it was.

  The monks each carried a carpetbag, except for one who toted the staff of Moses in its leather case, and, ladies first, they waited patiently for Augusta to board.

  It was then that the eyes of Red and one of the monks clashed. A large bloodstain on the front of the monastic’s robe had drawn his attention. The man pushed back his hood, revealing a florid, crimson-cheeked face, carroty, tonsured hair and a thick, fiery mustache and eyebrows. The face was lean, stretched tight over coarsely molded features, the pug nose broken, the result of being slammed by a British soldier’s rifle butt in his native Ireland, and the mouth was wide, thin-lipped and expressive. It was not the face of an Irish poet, but of a pugnacious fighter. The initial impact of the son of Erin’s strong features convinced Red Ryan that before he took the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, this man had been a heller.

  The voice was soft, remarkably cultured. Whatever he’d once been, the monk was an educated man. “A bundle of willow rods applied to a man’s back and chest can draw blood,” the monk said in his lilting accent. “Hazel is better, much more painful, but there were none of those in these parts.”

  “Who beat you like that?” Red said. “Give me a name.” Next to him, Buttons Muldoon listened intently and scowled.

  The Irishman smiled. “I did it to myself in the chapel. We all did. We scourge ourselves to mortify the sinful flesh. In our order, mortification without blood spilled is no mortification at all.” He raised his hood again, signaling that he was all though talking.

  The monks followed Augusta into the stage and Buttons whispered into Red’s ear, “Strange rannies, these holy monk fellers.”

  “Did you see any whips made from willow branches in the church?” Red said.

  Buttons shook his head. “Whips? No, not as I recollect.”

  “How about blood?”

  “Didn’t see that, either.”

  “Odd, very odd,” Red said.

  “What is?”

  “The Irish monk said he and the others had whipped themselves with willow rods until they drew blood,” Red said. “But you saw no rods and no blood in the church.”

  Buttons had his eyes on his watch and his mind on his schedule. “Told you them boys were mighty peculiar,” he said. His head snapped up. “Heck, now what?”

  Red saw Abe Patterson, wearing his hat, boots, and gun, looking feisty, step out of the hotel door and walk purposefully toward he and Buttons. The little man said, “While you two was dilly-dallying around, I got you another passenger. His name is Archibald Weathers.”

  Buttons’s gaze scanned the street. He saw a small crowd of late revelers who’d gathered to watch the stage showboat out of town, but nobody looked like a passenger. “Where is he, boss?” he said.

  “He’ll be here directly,” Patterson said. “A couple of the local constables have gone to bring him from the hoosegow.”

  “Boss, he’s an outlaw?” Buttons said, his jaw dropping.

  “No, he ain’t an outlaw. He don’t even come close to be being an outlaw,” Patterson said. “The chief lawman around here came to see me this morning before you two were out of bed and told me exactly what he was.”

  “And what is he exactly?” Buttons said.

  “A damned nuisance, that’s what he is. The lawman said Weathers was offered a choice . . . get hung or get lost.”

  “And he chose the latter.”

  This from a smiling Augusta Addington who’d been listening at the stage window.

  “Indeed he did, Miss Addington,” Patterson said, touching his hat brim. “The town is paying me two hundred dollars to get rid of him. He won’t steal another chicken or grab a cooling apple pie off a San Angelo windowsill ever again. And his career as a saloon swamper is over.”

  “He sounds like a desperate character,” Augusta said, smiling.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head about that, Miss Addington,” Patterson said, misinterpreting her amusement. “There’s no need to get a fit of the womanly vapors. If Archibald Weathers even comes near you, Red Ryan will shoot him down like a dog. Won’t you, Red?”

  Red nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Patterson.” He made a gun of his hand and dropped his thumb like a hammer. “I’ll ventilate him quicker’n scat
.”

  “Then my mind is now very much at rest,” Augusta said. She decided to play Patterson’s game. “Oh dear, I do declare that the ruffian will be uncomfortably close to me in the stage.”

  “Pshaw, that ain’t going to happen,” Patterson said. “Weathers’s fare is being paid by the San Angelo city fathers, so he ain’t a paying passenger himself, if’n you catch my drift. He’ll ride on top where he’ll be a nuisance to nobody.”

  “Except to me and Red,” Buttons said.

  “Once you’re a hundred miles out of town, maybe as far as the San Saba River, you can dump him,” Patterson said. “And good riddance.”

  A few minutes later two police constables showed up with Archibald Weathers walking between them. If Red and the others expected the man to look even a little like an outlaw, they were doomed to disappointment. Weathers could have hired himself out to a farmer as a living scarecrow. He was short, skinny as a rail, wearing a stained white collarless shirt several sizes too big for him and ragged pants that stopped above his ankles, his bare feet shoved into laceless army shoes that had once fitted a much larger man. His face was gray, badly bruised, and his dull, chocolate button eyes were downcast, as though he was completely uninterested in what was happening to him.

  Worried about his schedule, Buttons Muldoon took charge. “You,” he said to Weathers, “get onto the top of the stage and then stay put. Move and I’ll shoot you off of there, compre?”

  Weathers, pale and weakened by hunger, made a hard job of it climbing onto the stage and he had to be assisted by Buttons and Red who manhandled him aloft as they would a mailsack. The little man finally sat upright, hugged his knees, and stared straight ahead, his face expressionless.

  But Buttons wasn’t done with him yet.

  “You,” he said. “See all them people standing around? They’re waiting to see the Patterson stage showboat its way out of town, so you just hold on tight up there and keep your trap shut. Understand?”

  Weathers looked down at Buttons and nodded, one quick jerk of the head, his face blank.

  “Well, see you do,” Buttons said, puzzled. What was wrong with that little man? He’d never met anyone so . . . lifeless.