CHAPTER THREE
“Damn, but Brother Morgan must’ve been a heavy man,” Buttons Muldoon said, breathing hard as he looked up at the coffin lashed to the top of the Concord. “Coffin weighed a ton if it weighed an ounce.”
As always, the Reverend Solomon Palmer was unheeding of the rain that pounded on him. “No, he wasn’t. His illness had faded him to a nubbin. It’s the coffin that’s heavy. It came from El Paso and is crafted from the best walnut available with real silver furniture. Of course, it’s lead lined to help preserve our departed brother until he reaches his loved ones.”
“He might have been more considerate of the rannies that had to lift it,” Buttons said.
“Lead was his dying request,” Palmer said. “Brother Morgan wanted to look as fresh as possible when he reached the Talbot ranch.”
“Well, he’s got me all tuckered out,” Red Ryan said. “I got to get some shut-eye.”
“Me too,” Buttons said.
The Reverend Palmer’s hospitality did not extend to a bed for the night. “Your best bet is the saloon. It’s still got a good roof.”
“And a hard floor,” Buttons said.
“I’m sure you’ll be snug enough,” Palmer said. “When will you leave in the morning, Mr. Muldoon?”
“At first light.” Buttons looked up at the black sky. “Come rain or shine.”
“Crackerjack!” Palmer said. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned and left, walking toward his cabin, followed by Buttons’s baleful gaze.
“Red, I don’t trust that feller. Do you?”
“He has a Colt and a Winchester. Hard to trust a preacher who’s armed to the teeth.”
“Red, so are we,” Buttons said. “Armed to the teeth, I mean.”
“Yeah, but we’re honest men.”
“Are we?” Buttons said.
“Hell yeah,” Red said. “Most of the time.”
* * *
Red Ryan figured he’d had enough rest and rose to his feet. Lulled by the patter of rain on the roof, he’d slept a couple of hours until Buttons’s snores, loud as a ripsaw running through knotty pine, woke him. He hadn’t a chance in hell of getting back to sleep.
He picked up his plug hat from the floor, settled it on his head, and stepped through darkness to the saloon door that he opened wide, breathing in the storm-washed night air. The rain had petered out and a gibbous moon rode high in the sky. Somewhere close, a pair of hunting coyotes talked to the stars. Red built a cigarette and walked onto the boardwalk. The street was a sluggish river of brown mud that oozed through a town of black shadows, silent as the grave.
He lit his cigarette, walked along the boardwalk a ways, and then returned to the saloon door and Buttons Muldoon’s snores. He flicked his glowing butt into the street and reached for the makings again. His hand never reached the pocket of his buckskin shirt . . . halted in the air by the double blast of a shotgun that shattered the quiet into a thousand slivers of sound.
“What the hell?” Buttons yelled.
“Scattergun,” Red replied.
Boots thudded on the saloon floor and Buttons joined Red on the boardwalk. “Where?”
“Sounded like it came from the reverend’s place.”
“Is he shooting at coyotes?”
“I guess not, since he doesn’t have a shotgun. Unless he has one stashed away somewhere.”
“Well, I guess we should go find out,” Buttons shook his head. “Damn it, I’m tired, Red. I haven’t slept a wink. Not a wink.”
“Me neither.”
* * *
Red Ryan noticed two things when he reached Solomon Palmer’s cabin. The first was that the door was wide open and hadn’t been forced and the second was the preacher’s body sprawled on the floor under the gun rack. His Colt and Winchester were gone.
“He died trying to reach his gun when he was shot,” Buttons said. “Looks like two barrels of buckshot in the back cut his suspenders right quick.”
“Seems like.” After a few moments of thought, Red said. “I think the reverend knew his killer and opened the door for him. Then something passed between them that scared Palmer and he attempted to get his gun. Then bang! bang! and he bought the farm.”
Instinctively Buttons dropped his hand to his holstered Colt. “Hell, Red, the killer could still be around here.”
“I doubt it. I reckon he stashed his horse close, walked up on the cabin, knocked on the door, and Palmer let him inside. After he killed the preacher, he left by the way he came and lit a shuck.”
“I’ll take a look around anyway,” Buttons said.
After a few moments, Red heard Buttons yell, “I am a legal representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. I order you to show yourself.”
A couple of minutes passed, and then Buttons stepped back inside. He shook his head. “There’s nobody out there.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. This was a quick, efficient job. I’d say the killer is pretty good at what he does. Buttons, stay where you are. Now look over there by the fireplace.”
“I’m looking.”
“What do you see on the floor?”
“Somebody’s muddy footprints.”
“They’re the killer’s tracks,” Red said. “Look at Palmer’s feet. He’d taken off his shoes after he came in the cabin. It seems the killer stepped to the fire to warm himself and then said something that scared the reverend.”
“And as you said, Palmer was trying for his gun when he was shot,” Buttons said.
“That’s how it shapes up.” Red stared hard at the prints. “Small feet, small man.” Then, after a pause for thought, “Unless Palmer was killed by a woman.”
“Nah, a woman couldn’t do that—shotgun a man in the back,” Buttons said. “It ain’t in their nature.”
“Some women could.”
Buttons smiled. “Yeah, a woman like Hannah Huckabee could, and no mistake.”
“The question is why?” Red said. “I mean, why gun down a preacher?”
“A preacher with a Winchester and a Colt is a mighty strange kind of sin buster. You said so yourself, Red.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? All right, let’s look around. See if we can find anything that might tell us more about Palmer.”
The search of the cabin proved fruitless, except for a silver pocket watch, a Barlow folding knife, and a wallet with forty-five dollars in notes and a carte de visite of a half-naked woman named Roxie taken in Austin’s Rendezvous Gentlemen’s Club.
“A shapely lady is Roxie, ain’t she?” Buttons said, studying the photo.
“She sure is.” Red shook his head and looked at the body on the floor. “Solomon Palmer, Buttons is right. You were a mighty peculiar breed of sin buster.”