CHAPTER FOUR
Red Ryan and Patrick “Buttons” Muldoon were being read to from the book by a little banty rooster in high-heeled boots and a wide-brimmed hat.
“On the route to the Perdinales River there’s to be no cussin’, no drinkin’, and no loose talk about fancy women,” Abe Patterson said. “Keep a solemn countenance at all times and try to look like you’ve said a prayer at least once in your lives. Remember the good name of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company is at stake.”
“Heck, Mr. Patterson, we’ve had holy rollers as passengers before,” Buttons said. “I never heard one of ’em complain.” He thought about that for a moment and said, “Well, they done plenty of complaining, but I never heard one grumble about me and Red cussin’ an’ sich.”
“These four ain’t your regular sin busters,” Patterson said. “They’re bona fide monks, wear the robe and sandals and everything. They’re headed for a mission north of the Perdinales about twenty miles due east of Fredericksburg, and that’s where you’ll take them.”
“I don’t recollect a mission in that part of the country,” Buttons said. “What about you, Red?”
“It sure don’t ring a bell with me,” Red Ryan said. “There’s a couple of big ranches in that neck of the woods, but I never heard tell of a mission.”
“Only one of them monks speaks English, sounds like an Irishman to me,” Patterson said. “He says he and his brothers—they ain’t real brothers but that’s what them monk fellers call each other—plan to start a mission and to start things off, they got a holy relic with them.”
“What’s a holy relic?” Red said.
Patterson shook his head. “Ryan, you’re some kind of heathen, ain’t you?’
“Buttons, you ever hear tell of a holy relic?” Red said.
“No, I never did,” Buttons said. “I recollect one time an old mountain man calling himself a relic, but he wasn’t holy or nothing like that.”
“I declare, damned ungodly pagans, both of you,” Patterson said. “A holy relic is something that belonged to a saint, like his skull or a lock of his hair or something. Well, one of the monks is a German, and he carries a long leather case with him and the Irishman claims it’s the staff Moses carried when he led the chosen people across the desert to the Promised Land. Heck, it’s all there in the Bible. Read about it sometime.”
Abe Patterson’s pale blue eyes went to the window of his office, his interest caught by a cavalry patrol out of Fort Concho that jangled past, eight black troopers and a beardless white officer who looked all of sixteen years old. The little man leaned forward in his chair and growled like a terrier that’s just seen a rat. “Damned Apaches!” He turned to Buttons and Red. “You boys just arrived. Maybe you ain’t heard that the Mescalero and Lipan are out.”
“We heard, boss,” Buttons said. “How many you figure?”
“Thirty or so, all young bucks, and they’re playing hob,” Patterson said. “They crossed the New Mexican border sometime in the past month and the army is already bringing in settlers, them that will come. I just heard that the savages murdered and scalped three tin pans down on the San Saba and there’s talk of a burned ranch house at Rock Spring and a woman kidnapped. But I don’t know if that’s true or not.”
“Them monk fellers aware of all this?” Buttons said.
“Yeah, they are,” Patterson said. “But the Irishman said God will protect them.”
“Maybe God’s never met up with thirty Apache bucks on the prod afore,” Red said.
“Well, it’s a big country,” Patterson said. “You probably won’t even see an Apache.”
“Seems like we’ve heard that before,” Buttons said.
“A few times,” Red said.
Patterson stabbed a forefinger at his shotgun guard. “Listen, Ryan, if you do meet up with them savages, just stand up in the coach, beat your chest, and say, ‘I’m a representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company.’ That will send them high-tailing it pretty damned quick.”
Buttons and Red exchanged glances, and Red said, “Boss, we’ll surely keep that in mind.”
“Then see you do,” Patterson said. “I’m tired of giving you good advice that you don’t follow. When you boys pull out at first light tomorrow morning, I think I can get you an army escort as far as the San Saba and maybe further. We’ll see. In any case, our new station has opened at Kickapoo Springs, and I hired a man named Jim Moore to manage the place. He’ll see you all right for a fresh team and grub.”
“Here, is that the Fighting Jim Moore from down old Fort Leaton way?” Buttons said. “He’s got a wife that keeps right poorly and two simple sons?”
“The same,” Abe Patterson said. “Moore was a blacksmith for Charlie Goodnight and then became a Texas Ranger for a spell. He’s the one that killed Arch Benson, the Sulphur River Kid, in Amarillo that time.”
“I recollect being told about that fight,” Buttons said. “I remember Moore as a big man, favors his left leg some.”
“That’s him,” Patterson said. “He told me he caught a bullet in that leg during a shooting scrape in El Paso and has limped on it ever since.”
“A hard, unforgiving man is Jim Moore,” Buttons said.
“I know,” Patterson said. “That’s why I hired him.”
The office door opened and a tall, lanky drink of water with a hard-boned face and quick black eyes stepped into the office. Pete Crane drove for Abe Patterson, and a sea of bad blood lay between him and Red Ryan. They went back a ways, and none of it was good.
Crane greeted Patterson and Buttons Muldoon and then nodded coldly at Red. “Howdy, Ryan,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“At least a six-month,” Red said, tensing up little.
“Took that long for my face and all to heal up and them two broken ribs you gave me,” Crane said.
“You picked the fight, Pete,” Red said.
“Maybe so, but you should’ve told me you’d been a professional booth fighter back in the day,” Crane said. “Keeping that to yourself was underhand and low down.”
“A man accused of dealing from the bottom of the deck who then gets hit by a sneaky punch don’t have much time for polite conversation,” Red said.
“If I’d knowed you’d been a professional bare-knuckle fighter I wouldn’t have punched you,” Crane said. “I was mad clean through that day in the saloon, but I wasn’t stupid. You compre what I’m telling you, Ryan?”
Red smiled. “Sure I do. Next time I’ll tell that I was a prizefighter afore I pound you into the sawdust again.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Crane said. “It’s what’s called in Texas a common courtesy.”
“Well now, that’s true blue of Ryan, ain’t it, Pete?” Abe Patterson said. “I mean, he says that next time he’ll tell you he made a living with his fists afore he cleans your clock. He spoke it right out like a white man, didn’t he?”
Crane seemed unsure, but he said finally, “Yeah, I guess he did.”
“Good. It’s water under the bridge,” Patterson said. “Let bygones be bygones, I always say, especially between two fellers who work for me.”
“Truer words were never spoke,” Buttons Muldoon said. “Here, Pete, did you see the monks in town? A mighty strange sight in San Angelo, huh?”
Crane mentally shrugged off Red’s treachery for the moment and said, “Yeah, I saw them.” He grinned. “And so did Stover Timms and Lem Harlan.”
Abe Patterson’s weathered face twisted into a scowl. “Here, is that damned border trash interfering with our passengers?”
Crane was surprised. “Our passengers instead of just the passengers? Heck, the Patterson stage company is coming up in the world.” The driver read the irritation in his boss’s face and said, “Stover and Lem . . . the boys are just having a little fun with the padres about wearing them brown dresses an’ all, say they look like kinda ugly womenfolk.”
“Until they’re delivered to their destination, the monks are under the protection of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage an Express Company,” Patterson said. He jumped up from his chair and shoved his hat on his head. “Buttons, Red, come with me, you too, Pete, and we’ll put an end to this tomfoolery.”
“I’ll sit this one out, boss,” Crane said. “Timms and Harlan are friends of mine. Red, you step careful around them two. Stover is fast on the draw and shoot and Lem is faster. They call you, and you won’t even come close.”
“There will be no shooting,” Patterson said as he headed for the door. “I’ll see to it that any man who pulls the iron in my presence gets hung.”
“Or gets shot,” Red Ryan said, looking hard at Crane.