CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The undertaker, a little hopping crow of a man in a clawhammer broadcloth coat, stepped onto the shadowed porch lit only by the flickering oil lamps on each side of the inn door. With him was young Sheriff Herman Ritter . . . brown eyes, brown hair, and a serious, almost solemn demeanor. He wore a silver star on the front of his dark blue shirt, and a Colt revolver with an ivory handle was holstered at his waist.
“Mr. Muldoon,” Ritter said. “What an unpleasant surprise.”
Buttons said. “No matter what the hotel manager tells you, I wasn’t really aiming to plug him. I was only funning . . . a right knee-slapper.”
A confused looked flitted across Ritter’s young face. “According to the messenger boy I spoke with, that was not the nature of Mr. Watson’s complaint.”
“He’s a complaining kind of man,” Buttons said.
“His complaint is that you dropped a woman’s dead body in his foyer,” Ritter said.
“We laid a murdered woman in his foyer,” Buttons said. “We found her twenty miles north of here in a dry wash. She died shortly after my shotgun guard here discovered her.”
“And you are?” Ritter said. “No, wait, I remember you . . . Red Ryan, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, we met about a year ago,” Red said. “The time Miss Hannah Huckabee . . .”
“A fare-paying passenger of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company,” Buttons interrupted.
“ . . . shot the gunman Dave Winter,” Red said.
“Yes, in the Munich Keller beer hall,” Ritter said.
“The very same,” Red said.
“Miss Huckabee is an adventuress, and at the time I was not impressed with her respectability, nor with yours, Herr Ryan and Herr Muldoon,” Ritter said. “I’m still not.”
Right there and then, an irritated Red decided to tattoo the lawman with the facts. “The dead woman was the widow of a deputy sheriff who was gunned down in Austin about a week ago. She was with child, and the killer kidnapped her for his own pleasure. The killer’s name is Donny Bryson and we think he’s still in this area.”
Ritter’s eyes widened. “Donny Bryson? Here in Fredericksburg?”
“Donny Bryson,” Buttons said. “And he might be here or he could be anywhere.”
“Oh, my God,” Ritter said.
“Yeah, that’s it. Get the good Lord on your side, Sheriff,” Buttons said. “I think you’re gonna need him.”
A profound silence fell on the group into which the undertaker dropped words that fell like rocks onto a tin roof. “May I take a look at the dear departed now?”
Ritter nodded. “Yes, go right ahead. I’ll join you.”
A sweep of the undertaker’s hand took in both Buttons and Red. “I take it that you gentlemen are the chief mourners?” He smiled, revealing teeth as large and yellow as old piano keys. “Oh, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Benjamin Bone, but you can call me Benny Bone. Everyone else does. I want us to be friends.”
Buttons said, “Benny, we’re no kind of mourners, and we don’t want to be your friend. As I told the sheriff, we found the lady, and then she died.” Then, “Kind of how our luck’s been running.”
“Ah, most unfortunate,” Bone said. “Now, Sheriff, shall we take a look at the deceased? Burial fee at my usual rates, I trust?”
Ritter shook his head. “She’s not the city’s responsibility. The Patterson stage found the women, and the company should meet the cost of her interment.”
“Sheriff, she’s a murder victim,” Red Ryan said. “And you’re the law. It’s time for you to hitch up your gunbelt and go get dirty.”
“No, it’s the Gillespie county sheriff’s responsibility,” Ritter said. “My authority ends at the city limits.”
“So where’s the county sheriff at?” Buttons said.
“Unfortunately, he developed a heart problem and is on extended leave,” Ritter said. “He’s convalescing with his wife’s family in Dallas.”
“Doesn’t he have a deputy?” Buttons said.
“He did, but the man left to go gold prospecting, and the position hasn’t yet been filled,” Ritter said. “After all, the county sheriff left for Dallas only six weeks ago.”
Augusta Addington, now wearing a white cotton day dress with long sleeves, had been standing at a distance listening to this conversation. Now, frowning, she marched to Ritter and confronted him. “What do you call yourself?” she demanded.
“I’m Sheriff Herman Ritter.” The man seemed taken aback by Augusta’s fierceness.
“I know what your name is, I meant, do you call yourself a lawman?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then you’re living under false pretenses,” Augusta said. “There’s a dead woman lying in the hotel was who beaten and raped to death, her killer is still at large, and all you can talk about is who should bury her.”
“But, I . . .”
“But . . . but . . . but . . . no buts,” Augusta said. “Do your job, Sheriff. And if you can’t do it, bring in lawmen who can, the Texas Rangers or the marshal from Austin. After all, the dead woman is one of his own.” Augusta folded her arms, her beautiful eyes blazing. “Well,” she said, “I’m waiting.”
“Are you any kin to a woman by the name of Hannah Huckabee?” Ritter said, appearing to shrink.
“No, I am not. And I’m still waiting for your decision. Will you handle this matter or not?”
“Who are you, my liebe Frau?” Ritter said.
“I am Augusta Addington of the Philadelphia and New Orleans Addingtons, and I am not without influence. I am also a concerned citizen of these United States, and I demand action. Instanter!”
“Then I’ll take a look at the body and we’ll go from there,” Ritter said.
“Be prepared, lawman,” Buttons said. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Danke, mein Herr, but I’ll be the judge of that,” Ritter said.
* * *
“Oh, mein Gott! Oh, mein Gott!”
Sheriff Herman Ritter, turned away from the ravaged body, his face ashen. “What in God’s name did he do? How could he . . .”
“Do you want me to explain it to you?” Augusta Addington said.
“No, I don’t want you to explain it to me,” Ritter said. “I saw for myself what happened to her.”
To Augusta, Ritter looked too young to be a town sheriff or any other kind of lawman, and very vulnerable. “Sheriff, wire Austin and tell them what happened and ask them to send a lawman here,” she said. “And the dead woman may have loved ones who would wish to take her body home.”
“By Texas law, a body must be buried, embalmed, or placed in a sealed coffin within twenty-four hours, and the woman has already been dead for most of that time,” Ritter said. “Austin is eighty miles away, and a relative would never get here in time. Besides, whoever it was would need to identify the body. Do you want a mother, a father, a sister, or a brother to go through that? She’s so badly beaten, identification might be impossible.”
“Alas, there’s only so much repairing I can do,” Benny Bone said. “As you say, Sheriff Ritter, identifying the deceased could be a most harrowing ordeal for the bereaved.”
The young lawman’s face hardened, signaling that he’d made a decision. “Mr. Bone, place the woman in a plain pine coffin. We’ll bury her tomorrow morning in Der Stadt Friedhof.”
“What the heck is that?” Buttons said.
“The City Cemetery,” Benny Bone said. “It’s a nice place. She’ll be happy there.”
“If the woman has kinfolk who want to take her to Austin, they can exhume the body,” Ritter said.
“And what about Donny Bryson?” Augusta said.
“As I told you, out of my jurisdiction,” Ritter said. “But I’m sure he’s long gone from Gillespie County.”