CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Shortly after noon, another Patterson stage carrying two army officers en route for the Arizona Territory arrived at the El Paso depot to change horses. The driver was a talkative man named Hynick Pruitt who’d driven for Wells Fargo as a teenager. He and Buttons Muldoon went back a ways.
“Buttons, I seen not hide nor hair of anybody the whole trip from Fort Concho,” Pruitt said, helping himself liberally from the company’s whiskey jug. “Seen a buffalo, though, where once I seen thousands.”
“Changed times,” Buttons said.
“Sure enough.” Pruitt pulled on his tobacco-stained beard, obviously thinking, and then he said finally, “Rumor going around, Buttons. And you too, Red. You might want to hear this.”
Remembering Patterson’s hints about the coming of perilous events, Buttons said warily, “What kind of rumor, Hynick?”
“Nothing I could write down and make sense of,” the driver said. “Just whisperings, ye understand?”
“Let’s hear them,” Red said. “Whispered rumors are the worst kind.”
Pruitt’s shotgun guard, a surly man named Quinan, spoke for the first time. “I heard the army officers from Fort Concho talking and they say they heard it from Cuthbert Patterson. It seems there’s an important person coming in on a train and the gov-ment is involved. It’s being kept very secret. They’s heading this way and on different trains that end up in El Paso.”
“Do tell,” Buttons said. “What the hell would an important government person want in El Paso?”
“The Patterson stage, if the rumor is right,” Pruitt said.
“Taking him where?” Buttons said.
Pruitt said, “The government wants him hidden away in a godforsaken army post at the edge of nowhere and Fort Concho fits the bill.” He stared at Buttons. “Maybe you’ll take him there, Buttons, you and Red.”
“What’s so important about this government feller?” Buttons said. “Is he the president or something?”
“That’s the strange thing of it, Buttons,” Pruitt said. “Them two army officers we’re taking to Arizony say that Cuthbert told them he’s a whiskey drummer.”
“Huh?” Buttons said.
“You heard it right,” Pruitt said. “He’s a whiskey drummer.”
“The gubmint must be real worried about their whiskey supply, that’s all I can say,” Quinan said sourly.
Buttons shook his head. “It’s a great mystery.”
“Ain’t it though?” Pruitt drained his glass. “I got to go see to my team. So long, Buttons, Red.”
“Yeah, so long, Hynick” Buttons said. “And good luck.”
Pruitt said, “You, too. Good luck.”
* * *
It was the custom of a stage driver to showboat as he left town, standing in the box yelling and cracking the whip as the team leaned into the harnesses and broke into a thundering gallop. Buttons, a very critical judge, was impressed. Hynick Pruitt had it down to a fine art and passersby stopped in their tracks to cheer and applaud as the spinning yellow wheels of the Patterson stage kicked up clouds of dust on their way to places known and unknown.
* * *
Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon were at the Texas and Pacific railroad station at three-thirty and Abe Patterson showed up five minutes later. He wore his Colt on his hip as did Buttons and Red, and he was not in a sociable turn of mind.
“I’m glad to see you boys can be on time,” Patterson said. “More than your stage ever is.”
Buttons let that slide and said, “Boss, we hear the passenger is some kind of a government man. Is that true?”
“Who told you that?” Patterson said.
“It was Hynick Pruitt,” Red said.
“Pruitt never spoke an honest word in his life,” Patterson said. “The passenger is a whiskey drummer, or he was. He got religion a time back and swore off peddling demon drink.”
“All right then. How come a reformed whiskey drummer is getting so much attention from the government?” Buttons said.
“Because he is, that’s how come,” Patterson said, his banty rooster feathers ruffled. “That’s all you need to know for now.”
Buttons decided to avoid the whole subject, at least for a spell. But he did have one more question to ask. “What’s the party’s name, boss? We can hardly call him, ‘Hey, you’ all the way to Fort Concho.”
Patterson though about that and said, “His name is Archibald Monday, but you can call him Mr. Monday.”
“But only on a Sunday,” Buttons said, grinning. Patterson eyes became pieces of flint. “Is that your idea of a good joke, driver?”
Buttons shook his head. “No, boss. It was my idea of a bad joke.”
Patterson said, “Ryan, if Muldoon comes up with another joke, good or bad, you have my permission to shoot him.” Then, in his changeable way, he took out a silver case and proffered it to Buttons. “Here, have a cigar. Keep you occupied until the train gets here.”