CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The side lamps of the Patterson stage glowed yellow in the gloom as it made its way south at a steady five miles an hour, trailing dust. The only sounds were the creak of the stage, the jangle of horse harnesses, and the fretful wind that moved the prairie grass as quietly as the rustle of a silk dress. The vast, shadowed land was barely visible under the light of the stars and a horned moon, lost in darkness, distance, and mystery. It was the midnight hour, a time for traveling men in Apache country to stay alert and watchful.
After a long spell of silence, Buttons Muldoon said, “Somebody’s asleep.”
“Snoring,” Red Ryan said.
“Loud, like a ripsaw running through pine knots,” Buttons said. “I bet it’s one of them monks.”
Red’s restless eyes scanned the distances ahead and around him and said, “Why do you think it’s a monk?”
“Well, listen to it,” Buttons said. Then, “It ain’t Miss Addington, and it ain’t that little Whatshisname. He don’t have the lungs for it.”
“By the way, it was white of you to let Mercer travel inside,” Red said.
“Yeah, I know,” Buttons said. “But I’ll dump him after we ford the San Saba. Good grass and plenty of water down that way.”
“Buttons, he’s a man, not a steer,” Red said. “He can’t survive on grass and water.”
“Too bad,” Button said. He thought about it for a while and said, “Yeah, that’s just too bad.” Then, after another pause, he said, “Yup, that’s one of them monks snoring. It’s a kind of holy snore that you hear in church.”
“You’ve never been in a church,” Red said.
“That’s because I never lived for any length of time within the sound of church bells. And neither have you.”
“That’s true, but how come you know that god-awful snoring”—he hushed for a spell so that Buttons could hear it plain—“is a holy snore?”
“I just know, that’s all,” Buttons said, irritated. “Keep your eye on the trail, Red, and quit asking so many damn fool questions.”
“It’s an unholy snore, that’s what is it,” Red said.
“I don’t want to talk about the snore any longer,” Buttons said. “Just listening to it is bad enough.”
* * *
Fording the San Saba was easier than Buttons Muldoon expected. He made the crossing at a bend in the river where there was a shallow, sandy bottom and no current.
When he reached the far bank, Buttons halted the team and gave the passengers ten minutes to stretch their legs and answer calls of nature. Even the monks availed themselves of a chance to leave the jolting, swaying and cramped misery of the stage and wandered off into the darkness.
Buttons took Chris Mercer aside and said, “If’n you want, Archibald . . .”
“My name is Chris. Chris Mercer.”
Ignoring that, Buttons said, “If’n you want, I can drop you off here. I guess we’re a good hunnerd miles from San Angelo. Just south of us is Rock Springs, where there’s plenty of water. As I recollect, there’s a bat cave down there somewhere that’s a sight to see at sundown.” Buttons slapped the little man on the back. “A young feller like you could make himself real comfortable at Rock Springs, providing he could catch jackrabbits an’ wild turkeys an’ sich for supper.”
“Or he could starve to death, if he wasn’t murdered by Apaches first.” This from Augusta, who had overheard every word. “You’re not leaving him here, Mr. Muldoon. That would be tantamount to murder.”
“Tanta . . . tanta . . .” Buttons said. He looked confused.
“She means leaving Mercer here would be the same as murdering him, Buttons,” Red said. “Why don’t you put a bullet in his head and get it over with?”
Buttons snorted like one of his horses. “I’m not gonna . . . I mean, I’m not . . .”
“Leave him here to starve,” Augusta said. “You can take him to the Fort Mason stage station, where perhaps he can find meaningful employment. And if not there, I’m sure he will find work in Fredericksburg.”
“But it’s a hunnerd-dollar fare from here to German Town,” Buttons said. “Abe Patterson has that wrote down somewhere. And besides, all them square heads down there are farmers. Any way you cut it, lady, Archibald don’t have the makings of a sodbuster.”
“Then he can find something else that suits his talents,” Augusta said.
“Damn it all, he only had one God-given talent . . . shooting people,” Buttons said. “And he don’t want to work at that profession any longer.”
“I’m sure Mr. Mercer can find something,” Augusta said. Then, frowning. “Mr. Muldoon, I repeat, you’re not leaving him here.”
Then Mercer said, “I’ll stay here. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Damn, I need a drink.”
“You want a drink, you don’t need a drink,” Augusta said. “You’re coming to Fredericksburg with the rest of us, and that’s final.”
The woman was a formidable opponent, and Buttons retreated a step. “What about the fare?”
“I’ll pay the fare,” Augusta said. “Mr. Mercer, you can repay me after you find gainful employment at any job you choose.”
Red Ryan smiled. “Well, I’m glad that’s over. Now, can we get back on the road?”
But, as the monks returned to the stage, Buttons wasn’t quite finished. His conscience pricking him, he said, “For this once I’ll forgo the fare, though Abe Patterson would fire me on the spot for saying that.” A sudden scowl on his face, then, “But Archibald rides up top. I don’t want him rubbing shoulders with the fare-paying passengers.”
Augusta smiled, leaned forward and kissed Buttons on his stubbled cheek. “You’re an angel, Mr. Muldoon,” she said.
Buttons covered his embarrassment and obvious delight with bluster. “Archibald, get up top there and stop wasting everybody’s time,” he yelled.
He knew Red Ryan was grinning at him but didn’t look in his direction.