CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

When Buttons Muldoon drove the Patterson stage into El Paso, the city was booming thanks to the arrival of the railroads—the Southern Pacific, Texas and Pacific, and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe. Ten thousand people—merchants, entrepreneurs, ranchers, and young men on the make—rubbed shoulders in the crowded, roaring streets. Undesirables also sought to make their fortunes. Flashy gamblers, careful-eyed gunmen, wild young cowboys, thieves, murderers, and prostitutes crammed into the scores of jangling saloons, dance halls, gambling dens, and brothels that lined the streets. The proud boast of the lawless was that El Paso was the “Six-Shooter Capital of the World.”

Amid this cacophony of sin, violence, and debauchery was the modest, two-story depot of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, managed by seventy-five-year-old Ira Cole, one of the saltiest stage drivers to ever crack a whip. A wreck up Lincoln County way in the New Mexico Territory had broken both his legs, and a road agent’s bullet still lodged somewhere in his vitals had slowed him some, but the greeting Cole gave Buttons and Red was exuberant and energetic enough to refute his age.

After the whiskey was poured, drunk, and the glasses refilled, Cole said, “Well, Buttons, and be damned to ye fer a lost soul, you were supposed to be here in El Paso weeks ago. We thought for sure you were a goner.”

“It’s a long story, Ira,” Buttons said. “I’ll write up a full report for Abe Patterson and explain the loss of two horses.”

“No need to write it up. Abe is here in El Paso,” Cole said.

“Here? Because of me?” Buttons said.

“Partly. But mostly it’s to close a deal with the Texas and Pacific,” Cole said. “Abe says railroads are the future and he wants to get in on the business afore it’s too late.” The old man smiled. “Of course, he ain’t exactly as happy as a pig in a peach orchard with you two. He’s got his son with him, and that high-yeller gal of his, and they’re writing down new rules for stage drivers every day.”

“Then he’ll have to wait,” Buttons said. “I need to get Red to a doctor.”

Cole looked at Red. “Figured you’d took poorly with some misery or another, sonny. You look a mite green around the gills.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need to see a doctor,” Red said. Doctors will kill you quicker ’n scat. Everybody knows that.”

Daphne spoke or the first time. She laid down her whiskey and said, “Mr. Muldoon is right, Mr. Ryan. You must get checked out and get a clean bill of health before you ride shotgun again.”

“Wisely spoke,” Cole said. “And who are you, young lady? A passenger?”

“Yes, I was a passenger,” Daphne said. “I’m here in El Paso to practice the whore’s profession.”

With the truthfulness of the old, Ira Cole shook his head. “No offense, young lady, but it seems to me that you don’t have the trappings for that line of work.”

“But I do have the equipment, Mr. Cole,” Daphne said. “That should see me through.”

“Well, I hope that’s the case, young lady, and good luck to ye,” Cole said. “Some ladies get rich from lying on their backs, but it ain’t real usual.” He directed his attention back to Red. “There’s a doctor just down the street, a man named McKenna. He learned his trade during the War Between the States, and he’ll fix you right up. They say he can saw off a rotten leg in less than two minutes.”

“Damn it, I don’t have a rotten leg.”

“I know,” Cole said. “But he’ll fix you up just the same.”

* * *

“You’re a strong man, Mr. Ryan,” gray-haired Dr. John McKenna said. “I can’t find anything wrong with you that can’t be fixed by a week of bed rest. You can put your shirt on now.”

Red pulled his buckskin shirt over his head and then glanced at the disapproving portrait of a bearded Confederate colonel on the wall. “Is he kin of yours, Doc? He’s been staring daggers at me since I came in here.”

“No, not kin,” McKenna said. “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Booker C. Hadden. I amputated his left arm after the Battle of Gaines’s Mill. He was very grateful and later sent me his picture.”

The doctor took a small brown bottle with a tan-colored label from a glass-fronted cupboard and passed it to Red. “This is a tonic. Take a spoonful twice a day and it will help build your strength. Meantime, don’t work too hard and try not to get overexcited.”

Neither the doctor nor Red knew it then, but soon his strength would be put to the test . . . and he’d get very overexcited.

* * *

“Well?” Buttons Muldoon said, an eyebrow lifting.

“Well, what?” Red Ryan said.

“What did the doctor say?”

“He gave me a tonic.” Red held up the bottle. “Told me to take a spoonful twice a day.”

“And have you taken it yet?”

“No.”

“Then take a swig now.” Buttons made a face. “What does it taste like?”

Red tilted the bottle to his mouth, swallowed, and then put the cork back in place.

“Well?” Buttons said.

“It tastes mostly like gin.”

“Gin?” Buttons said, looking doubtful.

“You asked me, and I told you. It tastes like gin.”

“Let me try that.” Buttons took a swig and then said, “You’re right. It does taste like gin and maybe lemon juice.” He handed the bottle back. “It’s good.”

“And don’t you be getting any ideas. This stuff is a tonic to build up my strength. It ain’t for the likes of you.”

He and Buttons were in the depot’s back room, where there were cots and shelves above them for the drivers and shotgun guards to rest and put their belongings. Oil lamps were lit against the growing darkness and a small, four-paned window gave a view of the corral and barn outside. A potbellied stove stood in one corner with its always simmering coffeepot, the Arbuckle strong enough to float a Colt revolver. The room smelled of coffee, man sweat, tobacco, wood smoke, and gun oil. A print of Indians attacking a wagon train hung askew on one wall.

Red sat on the creaking corner of his cot and said, “Where’s the girl?”

“Daphne? As far as I know she’s gone whoring.”

“We have to pay back her twenty dollars.”

Buttons said, “Right as soon as we get paid.”

“We ain’t gonna get paid. Abe is likely to dock us pay for losing the stiff’s fare and the two horses.”

“If he don’t give us the boot,” Buttons said.

“We’ll find the twenty somewhere. I have a feeling that little gal is sure gonna need the money.”