Last Stage to El Paso, page 2
Buttons said, arranging his features into an expression that passed for sincerity, “So, boss, after all them scary ha’ants you can savvy why me and Red can’t drive the Gray Ghost. And now let us both thankee most wholeheartedly for your kindness, consideration, and understanding.”
“I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said. “I don’t believe that two grown men would set store by such nonsense. Road agents and maybe Apaches done for Long John’s men, not a curse.”
“But, boss . . .” Buttons said.
Patterson held up a silencing hand. “No buts. Here’s the situation. You already know, or maybe you don’t, that the Apaches are out, a dozen renegades riding with the four half-breed Griffin brothers.”
“I heard them Griffin breeds were hung by vigilantes up in the New Mexico Territory,” Buttons said. “Didn’t you hear that, Red?”
Red shook his head. “No, I can’t say as I did. But folks don’t tell me much.”
“Seems that you heard wrong, Mr. Muldoon,” Abe said. “A Texas Ranger by the name of Tom Wilson told me that five days ago the Griffins and the Apaches with them attacked a ranch house to the east of here, killed three men, and ran off with a couple of women. Wilson said he doubts that the women are still alive, but if they are, by now they’ll be wishing they wasn’t.” Abe consulted his gold watch, snapped it shut, and said, “Ranger Wilson had more to tell. He told me no later than this morning that Powell left Fort Worth four days ago. Remember him? The local lawman wired that Powell has took to wearing an eye patch, and he swears that him and his boys are headed south.”
“Or so the lawman says. Nobody’s heard of Luke Powell in years,” Red said.
Buttons said, “Who is he? I never heard of him until now. Maybe I was at sea at that time.”
Red said, “It was before my time as a messenger, when I was still cowboying for Charlie Goodnight’s JA Ranch up in the Panhandle, that Powell worked his protection racket, guaranteeing owners that their stages wouldn’t be robbed if they paid up. He made some good money at it, too. But the last I heard he was an expensive hired assassin who squeezed cash or property from the marks to spare their lives. That way he got paid at both ends. But he suddenly dropped out of sight two or three years ago. Some say he fled abroad to escape the law, some say he found religion, so who knows what happened to him.”
Abe waved his cigar and blue smoke curled in the air. “Maybe Luke Powell has returned to his old ways and he and his boys killed Doyle and Wilcox last night or this morning . . . or the Apaches did. The Apaches would do it for fun and Powell out of spite because the Abbot stage carries mail and never a strongbox. Well, I should say that it did carry mail. Long John told me he’s quit the business and he’s transferring the mail and his passengers to me.”
“Powell was never known to be a road agent,” Red said. “It’s not his style.”
Buttons snorted his disbelief. “Of course it wasn’t Powell or Indians or anybody else. Everybody knows it was the Gray Ghost its own self that done for them six fellers.”
“Mr. Muldoon, I don’t wish to hear that again,” Patterson said, frowning. “The coach is now with the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company and you will kindly refer to it as Number Seven. Do I make myself clear?”
“Why us?” Red Ryan said. “Boss, you’ve got other drivers and messengers.”
“None of them as reliable as you and Mr. Muldoon,” Patterson said. “That’s the fact of the matter.”
“And suppose we refuse?” Buttons said. His chin was set and stubborn and the buttons on his coat shone like newly minted silver dollars.
“Ah, if you refuse to work?” Abe rubbed his chin. Suddenly his eyes had all the warmth of shotgun muzzles. “Hmm . . . well, in that case, you’ll be dismissed instanter. And you’ll never work for an employer more caring of his men than me. That is, if you can find another situation in these hard times.”
Abe Patterson saw Buttons’s crestfallen look and his face softened a little. “Here, have a drink.” He opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Old Crow and three glasses. He poured the whiskey and said, “I know how you men feel, and I don’t have a heart of stone. Your maidenly fears have not gone unheeded, and that’s why I’ve chosen an easy run just for you . . . five theater performers to Houston, passengers as genteel and gracious as they come. Drink up, boys.”
“I’ll be driving the Gray . . .”
“Careful, Mr. Muldoon. I don’t want to hear that name ever again, remember?”
“Driving ol’ Number Seven,” Buttons said, his face glum.
“Yes, and she’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Patterson said, beaming. “Red leather upholstery and curtains, special-order thoroughbraces so it feels like you’re riding on a cloud. She’s a work of art, by God, and once you get used to her ways, you lucky boys will love her.”
Despite the warm caress of the whiskey, Buttons was still in a funk. “Three hundred and fifty miles of nothing but grass,” he said, “on a route I’ve traveled only a couple of times afore, plus Apaches, the Griffin brothers, and road agents takes a heap of loving.”
“And that’s exactly why I kept the Houston run for you and Mr. Ryan,” Patterson said. “The Apaches and the Griffin boys are raising hell to the west of us so you’ll be well away from those savages. And Luke Powell need not concern us. The Ranger said he stays close to towns, especially Fort Smith and New Orleans, where there’s whiskey and whores and pilgrims to be fleeced. I can’t see him crossing an empty prairie, even to get his revenge on Miss Erica Hall.” Abe spread his hands. “I’ll tell you about her later. Now, Mr. Muldoon, don’t complain. It will be an easy run. The way is smooth and the weather is fair. It will be like taking a bunch of flowers to your favorite maiden aunt for her birthday.” He smiled. “And you boys can see paddle steamers in the Houston canal. Now, that’s worth the trip, don’t you think?”
“If we get there alive,” Buttons said. “If ol’ Number Seven doesn’t decide to do for us like it did to them others.”
“Well”—Abe’s smile was as sincere as the grin on a Louisiana alligator—“it’s come down to this . . . You boys have a choice to make and I can only hope it’s the right one.”
“And that is?” Buttons said.
“Get on the stage or get fired. Think it over.”
“We’ve thought it over,” Red Ryan said.
“And?” Patterson said.
“We’ll ride the stage,” Red said.
Buttons looked at him aghast. “Are you out of your mind?” he said.
“Study on it,” Red said. “Summer’s almost over and winter will come down fast. We got a cozy enough berth here in San Angelo and don’t need to be spending December with empty bellies riding the grub line.”
“And here’s a kicker, a real humdinger as they say up Montana way. A twenty-dollar bonus for each of you after you deliver your passengers safely to the Diamond music hall in Houston, where they expect to be hired in a heartbeat, and I reckon they will,” Abe said. “So there it is, gentlemen, an extra double eagle each for a nice, easy drive in the late summer sun. Even if you were my own sons, my own flesh and blood, I couldn’t say any fairer than that.”
“We’ll take it,” Red said. “When do we start?”
Abe glared at Buttons. “You don’t look too sure, Mr. Muldoon.”
“All right, I’ll drive the gray stage,” Buttons said. “I’m not a one to believe in ghosts and ha’ants an’ stuff, but the first time it comes up with something spooky, I’ll mount the passengers on the backs of the team and leave Number Seven right where it’s at.”
“It won’t come to that pass,” Abe said. “Trust me, you’ll have a safe journey, I guarantee it. Now, let me read you the passenger list I got from Long John Abbot. Remember, these are all theater performers, what they call vaudeville artistes, so needless to say there will be no cussing, tobacco spitting, or crude jokes when you’re around those nice people. Do I make myself clear?”
Red nodded, and Abe took that as a yes from both of the men. He balanced a pair of pince-nez spectacles at the end of his nose and read from a scrap of paper.
“As I said, all this is from Long John,” Abe said. “He said the artistes came from Fort Worth to San Angelo on two different C. Bain and Company stages, and that Erica Hall is the main attraction. She’s a fan dancer from England and by all accounts is a lovely lass.”
“What’s a fan dancer?” Buttons said. He was surly. He guessed fan dancing was another of those fancy, big-city notions that were steadily eating away at the already shaky foundations of the Western Frontier.
“According to Long John, Miss Hall dances naked around the stage with two Chinese fans, but she uses the fans to cleverly cover up her lady bits so nobody ever gets a glimpse,” Abe said. He saw the puzzled expressions on Buttons’s and Red’s faces, shrugged, and said, “That’s what Long John told me. I’ve more to say about her, but I’ll leave that till later. The other woman is a singer, goes by the name of Rosie Lee. Then there’s the Great Stefano, a knife thrower, Paul Bone, a song and dance man, and Dean Rice, a juggler.” Abe took off his spectacles and laid them on his desk. “All in all, an interesting group of people.”
“Boss, you said there’s more to tell about the dancer gal,” Buttons said. “Does she ever drop them fans?”
“I don’t know,” Abe said. “Maybe at the end of her turn.”
“I’d sure like to see that,” Buttons said. “I reckon I’ve never seen the like before.”
“Maybe she’ll dance for you on the trail,” Abe said. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Hee-haw! Now, wouldn’t that be something,” Buttons said.
“Boss, what else were you aiming to tell us about her?” Red said. Something deep inside of him feared that this was news he really didn’t want to hear. And he was right.
Abe Patterson thought for a while and then said, “All right, you boys are boogered enough and I figured I wouldn’t tell you, but now I’ve studied on the right and wrong of the thing, my conscience won’t allow it. One thing about Abe Patterson, he’s always fair.”
“Now you got me worried, boss,” Red said. “Wring it out. Tell it slow and easy so we understand. Me and Buttons don’t want any head scratching.”
“Well, see, this is how it is, plain and simple,” Abe said. “You know I told you that Luke Powell left Fort Worth with just one eye.”
“Yeah, we know,” Red said. “He’s got a patch over it.”
“Well, it seems that Miss Erica Hall made him that way,” Abe said.
“What way?” Buttons said.
“The one-eyed way,” Abe said. “Rosie Lee told Long John Abbot that Miss Hall took out one of Luke’s eyes in Fort Smith with a hot curling iron. It was a quarrel over Luke cheating her out of some money and it turned violent. Rosie said it was Luke’s shooting eye that got poked and he ran out of the hotel screaming in search of a doctor. Well, sir, Miss Hall packed a bag and wisely skedaddled on a C. Bain and Company stage that was just pulling out of town headed for San Angelo. Later Powell came back looking for her with a knife in his hand and only one eye in his head only to find that the bird had flown. Four days afterward, the other artistes talked with a driver who remembered the beautiful lady who boarded his stage at the last minute and the next day they fled in another C. Bain stage to San Angelo with all the luggage, most of it Miss Hall’s.”
“Luggage? Seems to me all she needed to pack was two fans,” Buttons said. “Me and Red ain’t boogered none by that story. It don’t scare Red and me any.”
“You ain’t boogered because that ain’t the scary part,” Abe said. “The scary part is that chances are Luke Powell also talked to the same stage driver and by now he could know where Miss Hall is at. He’s left Fort Worth, and Rosie Lee says he vowed to take both Miss Hall’s eyes and kill all he finds with her.”
“All he finds with her . . . You mean, like me and Buttons?” Red said.
“That’s what he means, all right,” Buttons said. “And kill all he finds with her . . . It ain’t a friendly thing to say.”
“I told you, and now I’ll tell you again,” Abe Patterson said, “Powell will stay close to settlements. You won’t see hide nor hair of him between here and Houston, trust me on that. And besides, Houston has an excellent police force. I’m told twenty-two stalwart officers stand ready to uphold the law and protect the innocent.” Abe sighed and rose to his feet. “See, you boys got nothing to worry about. Now, if you will excuse me, I got to talk to the bank about a business loan.” He shook his head. “Hard times coming down, boys, hard times.”
CHAPTER THREE
“‘Hard times coming down,’ Abe says,” Buttons Muldoon said. “Yeah, for us, not for him.”
“You got that right,” Red said. He seemed glum.
“It occurs to me Long John Abbot could’ve washed the blood off the seat before he had this monstrosity pushed over to the Patterson depot,” Buttons said. He was up in the box under a high and hot sun, a scrubbing brush in his hand. He tossed an empty galvanized bucket to Red and said, “Fill that again.”
“How much blood is up there?” Red said.
“A lot,” Buttons said. “Look.” He held up the brush and a cloth he’d been using. Both were stained pink. “That’s how much blood. Long John said his boys were shot to pieces.”
Red refilled the galvanized bucket at the pump and handed it back.
“Now I see it up close, I got to say that it’s a fine-looking stagecoach,” Red said. “The paintwork is first-rate. Best I’ve ever seen. It looks like a china egg on wheels.”
Buttons paused in his work. “You know why it looks that way, don’t you?”
“Because it was a special order, I guess,” Red said. “Special orders get special treatment, paint and upholstery an’ sich.”
“No, that’s not the real reason. It’s because it’s the devil’s coach,” Buttons said. “That’s what the D on the door stands for . . . D-e-v-i-l . . . Devil.”
“That ain’t so,” Red said. “It was made for a foreign gent and them foreigners have all kinds of fancy names that start with a D.”
Buttons paused in his scrubbing. “Like what?” he said.
“Well, for one, do you mind Russian Bill? For a short spell he ran the Cow Horn Creek station down Medina County way,” Red said. “Nice feller, but melancholy in drink. I mean crying-into-his-whiskey melancholy.”
“No, I don’t recollect no Russian Bill,” Buttons said.
“Sure you do. He had a red beard down to his belt buckle and a Mexican wife that kept poorly. She had long black hair down to her butt and it shined in the sun.”
Buttons suddenly saw the light. “Oh yeah, now I remember them. Nice enough couple, good with horses. And I recollect that they had a simple son. I think his name was Brenda.”
“Brennan,” Red said. “Well, Russian Bill’s real name was Dimitri. That’s a foreign name and it starts with a D.”
Buttons was not convinced. “It wasn’t a Russian who ordered this coach, it was the devil himself. I can feel its bad luck coming at me like steam off an overheated horse.”
“Buttons, we’re taking this thing all the way to Houston and back again,” Red said. “So we got to look on the bright side. It’s a brand-new coach. It will fog it real good between here and Houston.”
“There is no bright side,” Buttons said. “It’s a bad luck stage and that’s the end of it.” He glared at his dripping brush as though it were to blame for all his troubles and then went back to his scrubbing.
“All right, then, here’s another bright side,” Red said. “Now, quit that scrubbing for a minute and listen up. Here it is . . . the bright side is that bad luck chases away worse luck. See what I mean? It’s real simple to understand. Think about it . . . A man can’t have bad luck and worse luck at the same time. It just ain’t nature’s way.”
Buttons stopped what he was doing, his face thoughtful, and then he said, “You know, Red, you may be onto something there. I mean, studying on it, bad luck ain’t really bad, but worse luck can pretty quick lay a man low.” He rubbed his chin with the back of the hand that held the scrubbing brush. “I never thought of it that way.”
“I did. I’ve been thinking about it all morning, since we first saw the gray stage. And what I said is a natural fact,” Red said.
“Yeah, a natural fact, and truer words was never spoke,” Buttons said. “We can’t have worse luck on the Houston run because we already got bad luck to chase it away.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” Red said. “Finally you got your saddle on the right hoss. We’ll hold on to our bad luck and we won’t let it go until we’re back here in San Angelo, all safe and sound.”
“I like the sound of that,” Buttons said. “There are times when bad luck can be a good thing.”
“Now you’re talking,” Red said.
Red Ryan didn’t know it then, but luck was waiting for him and Buttons just around the corner . . . and it was worse, much worse, than bad.
CHAPTER FOUR
As a general rule, rancher, lawman, and gambler Texas John Slaughter was not one to sulfurize a man’s reputation, but he made an exception for a ranny by the name of Ben Lloyd. In a 1913 Arizona Daily Orb interview he called the sometime cowboy, outlaw, and gunman, “a vile, loathsome creature, sly, cowardly, and lowdown and a back-shooting varmint.”
Slaughter summed him up nicely. Ben Lloyd was all of those things, and more.
Early that summer, he’d ridden into San Angelo carrying with him vague notoriety as a lethal gunman who’d notched the walnut handle of his Colt seven times. He soon took up residence in Paddy O’Hara’s saloon, where he quickly revealed himself to be a bully, a braggart, and a mean drunk. He also played pimp and claimed pretty young saloon girl Charlotte Gentry as his woman. The trouble was that Red Ryan and Charlotte were friends, not sharing-a-bed friends, but friends nonetheless since they both had a liking for calico cats and the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
