Last Stage to El Paso, page 22
“You may be right, jehu,” Jenks said. “But all them coaches just ain’t coming in my direction.”
Red Ryan said, “Jenks, them two with Luke Powell, how do you figure them?”
“Rubes. But they’re not just off the farm. And they ain’t too bright.”
“How do they stack up as gunhands?”
“Maybe good with a rifle, but they didn’t look comfortable wearing a gun rig. Take you, shotgun man, you look as though you were born with an iron on your hip. But not them boys. It’s hard to describe, but it seems to me their gun belts just didn’t fit them right, as though they were fretting them in some way.”
“They looked uncomfortable wearing a gun?” Red said.
“Yeah, you got your boots on the right feet, shotgun man. They looked mighty uncomfortable. Now, as I said, they may be handy with a rifle, because they managed them Winchesters like they’d used them a passel of times before.”
Buttons said, “Looks as though Powell’s found himself a couple of riflemen.”
“I’d say that’s the case,” Jenks said. “Them boys didn’t look like much, but they could be marksmen.”
“So he doesn’t intend to make it close,” Buttons said. “He’d rather pick us off at a distance.”
“Seems like,” Red said.
The army wives had been listening intently to that exchange and Mrs. Hannah said, “Mr. Muldoon, are you expecting trouble?”
“It sure sounds like it, “ Mrs. McDermott said. “Now I’m all aflutter. Mrs. Hannah, am I flushed?”
“Ladies, dear ladies, there’s no trouble me and Mr. Ryan can’t handle,” Buttons said. “Just compose yourselves with the knowledge that you’re in safe hands.”
“I do wish Corporal Hannah was here,” Mrs. Hannah said.
“And Corporal McDermott,” Mrs. McDermott said.
And together, “We wish both of them was here.”
“We’ll arrive safely in San Angelo without any trouble, I assure you,” Red said.
But trouble was waiting in the wings and when it came, it was from a totally unanticipated source.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Johnny Alford had robbed that coach before, killed the driver and messenger, and ended up with pocket change. “What do you think, boys?” he asked the two with him, John Walls and Aaron Savage, a couple of killers out of Pickens County in the Chickasaw Nation country of the Oklahoma Territory. Two years before they threw in with Johnny Alford, they’d fled the Nation after murdering a Chickasaw elder for his horse and the few dollars in his poke.
Hidden in a stand of oak and mesquite, John Walls had a telescope to his eye and after studying the oncoming gray stage for a few moments, he said, “Well, it ain’t on a mail run, coming up from the south like that.”
“Maybe it’s carrying gold or bonds from a Houston bank,” Savage said.
“To where?” Alford said, a young man with hard eyes and a thin, steel trap of a mouth. Historians, usually unwilling to explore the nature of evil, do concede that there was no good in Johnny Alford and a great deal of viciousness, depravity, and villainy, traits he shared with Walls and Savage.
“Most likely San Angelo,” Savage said. “They could even be carrying an army payroll for Fort Concho.”
Walls used his telescope again. “I think there are passengers,” he said. Then, after a few moments, “Yeah, passengers with luggage. Definitely.”
“It might be worth our while,” Alford said. “Pick up a few dollars.”
“What do we do about the driver and messenger?” Walls said.
“What we always do.” Alford pulled his bandana up over the bottom of his face. “Kill them.”
* * *
“Idiots!” Buttons Muldoon yelled.
He dropped the ribbons, drew his gun, and fired. Beside him Red Ryan’s scattergun roared. John Walls bent over in the saddle, cradling a wound, and drew rein on his horse. Whether he was hit with bullet or buckshot, now was not the time to find out. Alford and Savage split up, charging to the right and left of the stage. They both fired, their horses at a run. Both bullets zinged over the stage, missing Buttons and Red by at least a foot. Then they were past, but now within the range of the Winchester Red had swapped for the shotgun. He turned, leaned over the top of the stage, took aim, and fired. A hit. A man wearing a shirt of washed-out blue reeled, slowly slid from the saddle, and thumped onto the ground.
Buttons stood in the box and yelled, “Idiots!” His Colt hammered at the surviving road agent, but the man decided enough was enough and fogged it out of there. Red helped him on his way with a couple of shots from his rifle.
Buttons reined in the team and then turned to Red, his face incredulous. “Do you believe that?”
“Do you mean the bandanas? Strange, that.”
“Yeah, it was strange. If the idiots hadn’t covered their faces they could’ve got a lot closer and shot first. I mean, they could’ve been Rangers, and I wouldn’t have fired. But when they tried to disguise themselves, they removed all doubt that they were road agents. Idiots.”
“Let’s go see if either of the idiots we shot is still alive,” Red said.
Only one man was still alive but he was in a bad way, still sitting his horse. As Red walked closer to the wounded man he levered a round into the Winchester’s chamber. “Don’t!” the man yelled. “Mister, I’m all shot to pieces.”
“Then git down from there,” Red said. “Slowly now. Let me see both your hands.”
John Walls half fell out of the saddle, landed on both feet, but was unable to stand. He sank to the ground and his horse tossed its head and nervously sidestepped away from him.
“Who are you?” Red said.
“Name’s John Walls. I saw Aaron Savage cut and run, so the man you shot must be Johnny Alford. Too bad, he was a mighty smart man.”
“But stupid enough to wear a bandana over his face,” Red said. “That identified you as road agents.”
There was blood on Walls’s mouth and his face was ashen. “We robbed that gray stage afore,” he said. “The bandanas worked the last time. The driver and messenger saw us and threw up their hands right quick.” The man coughed up blood and then managed, “You two don’t scare easy.”
“Damn right,” Red said. “And then you shot them.”
“Yeah. That was Johnny’s idea. Leave no witnesses.”
“You killed better men than yourselves,” Red said. “Phineas Doyle and Dewey Wilcox died for no reason. The Abbot stage was coming back after a mail run.”
“We didn’t know that,” Walls said.
“You know it now,” Red said.
“Yeah, and I’ll take it to hell with me,” Walls said.
Buttons stood beside Red and looked down at the wounded man. “You’re all shot up,” he said. “Best you try to come to terms with your Creator.”
“Too late for that,” Walls said. “Too late for everything. Go away and let me die.”
Mrs. McDermott was in a terrible state of nerves and her round, homely face was burning. Mrs. Hannah, looking concerned, waved a small pocket handkerchief in the woman’s general direction, trying vainly to generate some air.
Mrs. McDermott looked down at Walls and whispered, “Is he . . .”
“Dead?” Buttons said. He took a knee beside the man and studied him closely. “Yup, he’s gone, ma’am. It looks to me that Red’s scattergun just about blew out his lungs before my bullet hit him. I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“Oh . . . oh . . .” Mrs. McDermott said. “I feel faint and I’ve come over all a-tremble.”
“I wish Corporal Hannah was here,” Mrs. Hannah said. “He’d know what to do.”
Erica Hall put her arm around Mrs. McDermott’s waist and said, “Let me help you back to the stage.”
“You’re so kind,” the woman said. “I know I’m being a burden to everyone. It’s my nerves, you know.” Then to Mrs. Hannah, “Maggie, where’s the brandy flask?”
“It’s in my purse inside the coach, dear. I’ll get it for you.”
“Just a sip will help calm me,” Mrs. McDermott said.
“And a sip or two will help me as well,” Mrs. Hannah said.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“Victor Potts will buy the horses and traps,” Buttons Muldoon said. “Maybe we can turn a profit on this trip after all.”
The road agents’ horses were tethered to the back of the coach, the saddles on the roof of the stage. The bodies of Johnny Alford and John Walls lay on the prairie and the coyotes and gray wolves would be their undertakers.
The day was hot, the sun high, but the air was clear, free of dust, and a farsighted man could see for miles across the open prairie. The team was performing well, but Buttons kept up a tirade on the faults of the Gray Ghost, now claiming that the stage would not stay on a straight line but pulled badly to the right.
“It hates me,” he said. “That’s why it’s acting up so bad.”
“I don’t feel anything,” Red said. He looked behind him. “The wheel tracks are as straight as a fire poker.”
“That’s because you don’t see too good, Red,” Buttons said. “You need a driver’s eyes to see stuff like that. There! Feel it? It’s pulling right and upsetting the leaders.”
“Maybe it wants to go somewhere,” Red said.
“Go where?”
“Somewhere. Is there a ghost town around these parts?”
“Not that I know of,” Buttons said. He thought for a few moments and then said, “No, wait, maybe there is. A week before he died, I recollect Phineas Doyle, God rest him, say that real recent a big wind blew him off course on this very trail, and him and Dewey Wilcox, may he rest in peace, ended up in a ghost town and it was like to booger the living daylights out of them.”
“Seems unlikely, way out here. Why would anyone build a town miles from anywhere?”
“I don’t know, but there’s no accounting for folks. When they set their minds to it, they can do some mighty peculiar things.” Buttons’s fingers made an adjustment on the reins, and then he said, “Now, here’s a thing . . . Phineas said that every door in that town had a red cross painted on it and all the doors was locked . . . from the outside, keys still in the locks.”
“What did Phineas figure had happened?” Red said.
“Plague town.”
“What kind of plague?”
“Cholera, probably. They had a contaminated water mill and it can happen anywhere at any time.”
“How many people?”
“Who knows. Phineas said they locked the victims in their homes so they wouldn’t spread the disease.”
“And they just let them die?”
“Seems like. Phineas and Dewey looked in a few windows and saw people who’d been dead for a long time. They were all dried up and their skins had turned black.”
“Was there anybody alive?”
“Not a living soul. Some had died and the rest had cleared out.”
Red looked around him and then said, “I don’t see anything that looks like a ghost town or any other kind of town.”
“Phineas said the dust storm was so bad that he turned his team’s tails to the wind and it blew them a right smart piece.”
“How far?”
“I don’t know. He never told me how long it took him to get back on the route to Houston.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Red said. “It’s a clear day, so maybe we’ll see it in the distance.”
“And we’ll keep it at a distance. I don’t want anything to do with a plague town. Phineas said the ghosts of the dead walk the streets and if you’re not careful, they’ll follow you home and stand around your bed at night.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Red said. “We should leave that ghost town alone.”
“And you ain’t heard the kicker yet,” Buttons said, staring straight ahead, his face grim.
“And what’s that?”
“Guess what stage Phineas was driving.”
“I know what you’re about to tell me and I don’t want to hear it.”
“Guess.”
“No, I won’t say it.”
“It was this one. The Gray Ghost.”
“Buttons, tell me this is another of your big windies.”
“No big windy. It was this stage. And it’s pulling like crazy. I think it wants to go back there to that town.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. If I let the team have its head, I guarantee the Gray Ghost would drive it in the direction of the cholera town.”
“Well, keep a tight grip on them ribbons,” Red said. “We don’t want to do any sightseeing today.”
“You believe the story Phineas told about the town, though, huh?” Buttons said.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“When we get back to the old Long John Abbot depot, I want to show you something.”
“What is it?”
“A long piece of wood, say four foot long and six inches deep. Phineas brought it back from the ghost town.”
“A part of one of those locked-up houses, I guess.”
“No, it stood on the edge of town. It was the burg’s name,” Buttons said.
“And what was it?”
“Painted on the sign were the words ‘Last Hope.’ Makes you think, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of sad,” Red said. His eyes swept the far horizon ahead of him, looking for ghost towns.
“And you know what’s strange?” Buttons said.
“Phineas said the buildings were old, the wood crumbling, and all the paintwork faded to almost nothing, but the sign with the town’s name one it was as fresh as the day it was painted. Dewey took it with him and it still looks like new.”
“I don’t think I want to see that sign, Buttons,” Red said. “And I never want to see that town, either.”
“Why not?”
“Well, considering what happened to Dewey Wilcox, it seems to me that taking the sign brought him bad luck.”
“No, Red, it wasn’t the sign that brought him bad luck. It was this stage,” Buttons said.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Luke Powell’s empty eye socket ached and squatting by a small mesquite fire in the middle of the night with two inbred idiots did nothing for his mood. Lonnie and Key Cooke knew nothing and talked about nothing. Earlier their sole conversation had been . . . “This coffee is hot, Key.”
“Then blow on it, Lonnie.”
“It’s still hot, Key.”
“Blow on it some more, Lonnie.”
“Ah, that’s better, Key.”
“Good, Lonnie.”
Powell had tried to turn the talk to women, their charms and beauty and the great whores he had known.
Lonnie hee-hawed, Key giggled, but they’d nothing to add. Lonnie said that one time he’d seen Betsy Chalmers’s almost-naked butt at the swimming hole and Key said that Maryanne Dover had let him touch her chest, but they were ten years old at the time.
Powell’s attempt at a discourse on desirable females died right there.
The biscuits he’d bought at Jenks’s station had been eaten and the remaining coffee in the small, soot-blackened pot was all they had. Powell wanted a good cigar and a glass of bourbon but he had neither. He also wanted Whitey Quinn and Bill Cline, but they were gone. He’d have to make do with what he had, and that wasn’t much.
“When we enter the stage station, you boys know what to do,” Powell said.
“Yes, sir,” Key Cooke said.
“Tell me.”
“We grab the pretty woman.”
Powell sighed and shook his head.
“No, you don’t. I’ll do that, understand?”
“Oh, I remember, we shoot the stage driver and the shotgun guard,” Lonnie, marginally smarter than Key, said.
“Right. You shoot the driver and the messenger and then I grab Erica Hall and then we all ride away.” Powell smiled. “You rubes never had a pretty woman before, huh? Well, you’ll soon have one to play with.”
The Cooke brothers giggled, slapped at each other, and crowed like roosters, and the thought occurred to Powell that if he shot them both he’d be doing the world a favor.
“Watch the messenger real close,” Powell said. “His name is Red Ryan and he’s fast on the draw. You’ll need to shoot him before he has time to make a play, capiche?”
“What does that word mean?” Key said, his vacant face screwed up in puzzlement.
“Capiche? It means ‘understand’ in Italian,” Powell said.
“Who are them eye-talians?” Key said. “Do they live in Texas?”
“No, they don’t. They’re nobody. Forget I said it.”
“Hey Lonnie, eye-talians,” Key said. “Ain’t that a funny name?”
“Ain’t it, though,” Lonnie said.
Both men slapped at each other again and laughed . . . and laughed . . . and Luke Powell began to have doubts that the Cooke boys could handle Red Ryan and that tough driver of his. He consoled himself with the thought that when the lead started flying, they’d come up to scratch. Powell had only one chance of getting his hands on Erica Hall and he needed the Cooke brothers as cannon fodder.
“Your sister told me that you boys did three years in Yuma,” he said.
“Yeah, we did,” Lonnie said, suddenly serious. “Me and Key was in the snake den twice and both times that place near killed us.”
“What was the snake den?” Powell said, only half-interested.
“We was put there because the warden called us problem prisoners,” Key said.
“What was it?” Powell said again.
“It was a cell dynamited out of solid rock and it only measured ten feet by ten feet,” Key said. “And it was pitch-black all the time unless the sun was directly overhead. There was no cot and we slept in shackles on the bare ground. Some men died in there, bitten by sidewinders that crawled inside. Rattlesnakes killed a lot of cons. We got grub once a day and that was the only time we saw a living soul. The snake pit was made to break a man’s spirit, but it didn’t break me and Lonnie. No, sir, when we got out after ten days, we spit in the guards’ eyes and took the beating we got without crying out. The guards used to get mad when me and Lonnie told them that when our pa got drunk, he beat us a lot worse than they did.”
