CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The shooting had stopped when Luna Talbot and the others arrived at the mouth of the arroyo. They drew rein to look to the two dead men.
Johnny Teague said, “There’s enough lead in those boys to use them as sinkers.”
“Mr. Teague, is it Texas Rangers?” Luna said.
“I don’t know, but let’s go find out,” the outlaw said.
“Riding in uninvited on a bunch of Rangers with their blood up and guns in their hands isn’t a good idea,” Juan Sanchez said. “Better tell them we’re coming.”
“I’ll do it.” Luna stood in the stirrups and called out, “You in there! This is Mrs. Luna Talbot of the Talbot ranch.”
There was a silence and then a man yelled, “What do you want? State your intentions.”
“Justice,” Luna said. “I have a score to settle with the Rathmores, and that is my intention.”
“That’s already settled, or most of it,” the man yelled. “Who do you have with you?”
“A party of armed and determined men,” Luna said.
A longer silence, as though the men in the arroyo were having a parley, and then, “Ride in slow, keep your guns holstered, and don’t let us see any fancy moves. We’re mighty salty men here and we mean business.”
“And so do I mean business,” Luna said. In a lower tone of voice she said to Teague and the others, “Case the rifles and holster the six-guns.”
“Damn, they sure sound like Rangers,” Dave Quarrels said to no one in particular. “Makes a man uneasy.”
“Makes a man think of a hanging posse and a hemp noose, you mean,” Teague said. “All right, boys, put away the hardware. Rangers don’t like guns unless they’re holding ’em.”
Luna led the others into the arroyo at a walk and they were met with a single rider.
“Name’s Ansley Dryden. I’m the foreman of the Rafter-K Ranch, and we’ve been at war with the Rathmores for years. The war ended today. All the rustlers are dead.” He shifted in the saddle and then said, “Heard there was a ranch to the south owned by a pretty lady, and you’re a pretty lady.”
The compliment was casually given with no other implications beyond the words, and Luna Talbot accepted it as such. “You’re very gracious, Mr. Dryden. We thought you were Texas Rangers.”
“No, ma’am, we’re just punchers,” Dryden said. His measuring eyes flicked to Broussard and then to Teague, and one by one the men with him. “You keep rough company, Mrs. Talbot”—he nodded in the direction of Leah Leighton—“with one lovely exception.”
“Thank you,” Leah said. “But I can be rough myself when the occasion calls for it.”
Dryden smiled, but it slipped some when Broussard said, “Mister, this rough character has two friends in the mine shaft. They may be dead by now, but I have to find out.”
“Mine shaft? I didn’t know there was a mine here. What kind of mine?” Dryden said, pretending ignorance.
“A gold mine, and it belongs to me, but it may be played out,” Luna said. “Now, please allow Mr. Broussard to see to his friends,”
“Go right ahead, gambling man.” Dryden took a canteen from his saddle horn and tossed it to Broussard. “Take this. They might need it.”
Broussard nodded his thanks and swung out of the saddle.
“Hold on,” Dryden said. He turned his head and called out over his shoulder, “You boys back there. Man coming in. Let him pass.” Then to Broussard, “Go right ahead. See to your friends.”
“Obliged,” Broussard said, not liking the man because of his rough company comment.
After Broussard walked hurriedly away, Luna said, “Where is Papa Mace?”
“He was the headman around here, wasn’t he?” Dryden said.
“Yes, he was the big auger,” Luna said.
“So far, we’ve killed four Rathmores, well, three dead and when I last saw him, the fourth was breathing his last,” Dryden said. “Could be he’s Papa Mace.”
“Mace is a fat man,” Luna said.
Dryden shook his head. “None of those boys was fat. They were all as skinny as slats.”
“Then Papa Mace escaped,” Luna said.
“You holding a grudge against him?” Dryden said.
She nodded. “Yes, I plan to find him and kill him.”
“That’s holding a grudge, all right,” Dryden said. He looked at Teague. “You got a stake in this as well?”
The outlaw shook his head. “I’m just along for the ride.’
“Or maybe for the gold mine, huh?” Dryden said.
Luna said, “Mr. Teague offered his protection, and I accepted.”
The big foreman had no problem with that. “Mrs. Talbot, the final act is about to start, but maybe you should give it a miss. It could be hard to watch.”
Suddenly Luna felt a pang of alarm. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get rid of the last of the Rathmores,” Dryden said.
* * *
Arman Broussard stepped into the mine shaft, going from morning sun into gloom, the strange, eerie half-light that is seen only underground. Triangles of tangled gray cobwebs hung between the beams holding up the roof and then along the angle between the floor and the walls rats as big as tomcats scuttled. The place smelled musty, like old parchment manuscripts, and was as silent as a shadow.
As his eyes adjusted to the change of light, Broussard made out the recumbent shapes of two men. They were still and made no sound. He kneeled beside Buttons Muldoon and stared into his face. The man’s eyes were shut, and at first Broussard didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Gently, he shook Buttons’s shoulder, and the driver’s eyelids fluttered.
“Buttons, it’s me,” Broussard said. “I came back for you.”
Without opening his eyes, Buttons croaked. “It’s about time. Where the hell have you been?”
“Are you hurt?” Broussard said, his gaze taking in the ropes that cruelly bound both men.
“Damn it, man, I’m dying here and you’re asking me questions,” Buttons said, his voice as dry as the rustle of straw. “Have you any water?”
“Right here.” Broussard uncorked the canteen and held it to Buttons’s lips.
But the driver shook his head and then nodded in Red’s direction. “Him first.”
“Buttons, I think Red Ryan’s dead,” Broussard said. “I’m sorry, real sorry.”
“He ain’t dead. He’s shamming.”
Broussard tilted the canteen to Red’s mouth. To his joy, Red stirred, his eyes flew open, and he drank greedily.
“Easy, shotgun man,” the gambler said. “Not too much at first.”
“Told you he was shamming,” Buttons said.
After Red drank his fill and Buttons had done the same, Broussard said, “You’re hog-tied, and I have to get you out of those ropes.” But the knots were tight, and the gambler’s slender fingers were no match for them. “I’ll get a knife.” He smiled. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m dying, and the gambler is making funny jokes,” Buttons said to the barely conscious Red. “Remind me to shoot him first chance I get.”
Something stirred in Red’s addled brain and he said, his voice weak, “As a representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, I forbid you to do that. He’s a passenger and under our protection.”
“Red, he ain’t a passenger,” Buttons said. “Your mind’s in a fog.”
Broussard smiled at this exchange and stepped out of the mine entrance. To his left a line of mounted cowboys, rifles in hand, faced a group of women and children who had their backs to the wall of the arroyo. The woman seemed frightened, clutching children to their skirts, and the tension in the breathless air was as taut as a fiddle string. Broussard, a rational man, could not think the unthinkable. As far as he was concerned the women and children were temporary prisoners, nothing more.
When heads turned to look at him, he said, “I need to borrow a knife. Got some ropes to cut.” When none of the punchers acknowledged him, he said, “Any kind of knife will do.”
Finally a man tossed him a Barlow and said, “Bring it back, you he’ah?”
Brossard nodded. “I will. And thank you kindly.”
The puncher waved a dismissive hand and turned to renew his watch on the women and children.
It was the work of a moment to cut Buttons and Red free of their bonds, but it took several minutes of trying before Buttons could stand again. Stiff and sore from rope burns, he watched Broussard gently stretch Red’s arms and legs, working to get circulation back, and he was impressed that the gambler cared.
“I heard the shooting,” Buttons said in a friendlier tone than he’d used before. “Did they get Papa Mace?”
Without looking up from his task, Broussard said, “I don’t know. I saw dead men, but I don’t know if he was one of them.”
“If he ain’t dead, I want him,” Buttons said.
Broussard smiled. “Get in line, stage driver.”