CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ryan, where the heck have you been?” Sheriff Herman Ritter said. “I thought you’d been shot for sure.”
“You would’ve heard the bang,” Red Ryan said. “I met a young lady in the alley and escorted to her hotel, there being a killer on the loose an’ all.”
“Was she wearing a blue shirt?” Ritter said.
“No. A yellow dress and she was carrying a parasol.”
Buttons Muldoon smiled. “Was she pretty?”
“No, kinda plain. But nice.” Red glanced at the body, now being attended to by undertaker Benny Bone and his unmerry men. “You any idea who he is?” he asked the sheriff.
A big-bellied man with cropped fair hair and piercing blue eyes, wearing a gold watch chain as thick as an ironclad’s anchor hawser over his brocade vest, answered for the lawman. “His name is, or was, Nathaniel Foxworthy. He’s a drummer out of Chicago for Anderson and Lawson whiskey, came into my saloon often, but never drank. Look in his wallet and you’ll see a tintype of his wife and six young’uns. He was always mighty proud of that photo and showed it around.”
“He have any enemies in Fredericksburg?” Red said.
“I already answered that question for the sheriff,” the big saloon owner said. “And I’ll tell you what I told him . . . whiskey salesmen have no enemies.” He turned his head and started intently at a saloon named the Frederick Haus and said, “Sheriff, I have to get back to work or those verdammt bartenders of mine will rob me blind.”
After the man left, Benny Bone hopped to Ritter’s side, cocked his head like an inquisitive raven and said, “Sheriff Ritter, will you contact the bereaved?”
“I can reach them through Foxworthy’s company in Chicago,” the lawman said.
“Yes, I saw you speaking with Gert Sperling,” Bone said. “I’m sure he’s done business with all the whiskey distillers.” Then, after some hesitation, “Ah . . . does the deceased have enough money in his wallet to cover his embalming and burial?”
“I don’t know,” Ritter said. He juggled the dead man’s wallet, wedding ring, silver cigar case, and watch and chain and said finally to Red, “Here, take the wallet and see how much cash is in there. Maybe I can wire some of it to his wife.”
“A hundred and sixty-five dollars,” Red said, handing the wallet back. “But maybe some of that’s his company’s money.”
“Sheriff, I can cover the deceased for forty dollars,” Bone said.
“Forty dollars?” Buttons said. “You could plant a whole tribe of people for that.”
“It’s the embalming that’s expensive,” Bone said. “Like the young Austin lady, loved ones may wish to claim the body.”
“By the way, Mr. Muldoon, Austin wired me back and now the young lady has a name,” Ritter said. “She was the wife of a deputy marshal called Mark Russell. Her name was Alice, and she was twenty-three years old.”
“Damn, I hope I live long enough to see Donny Bryson hang,” Buttons said.
“And I hope I’m the one who hangs him,” Ritter said. The sheriff took forty dollars from the wallet. “Bury Foxworthy decent, Benny,” he said. “We may have to send the body back to Chicago.”
Bone nodded. “I’ll do a nice embalming job, Sheriff. Depend on it.”
“Sheriff, have you studied on the wanted dodgers in your office for any that have a likeness of Bryson?” Red Ryan said.
“No, I haven’t,” Ritter said. “But it’s a good idea, because he might come this way. Today, I’ll be kind of busy, but do you want to go through the dodgers, Ryan? I have a stack of them on my desk. Help yourself.”
“Sure,” Red said. “I might have some old friends in there that I haven’t seen in a spell.”
“Mr. Muldoon, until I find Foxworthy’s murderer, how do you feel about signing on as my temporary deputy?” Ritter said. “I can pay a dollar-fifty a day.”
To Red’s surprise, Buttons didn’t hesitate. “Normally, I’d say no,” he said. “But two things happened that changed my mind. One is that a curse has been lifted from me, and I’m headed for a run of good luck. The other is that I want to see Donny Bryson hang. Oh, and there’s a third . . . I haven’t yet picked up any fares headed up San Angelo way or points north.”
“Very well then, raise your right hand. Do you swear to uphold the laws of Texas?” Ritter said. Buttons nodded, and the sheriff said, “Good. Then you’re hired.”
Red said, “Maybe I should explain about Deputy Muldoon’s curse . . . an old Indian by the name of Spirit Talker squared him with a dead vaquero holding a grudge.”
“Spirit Talker . . . you mean Mukwooru, the Comanche, is back in town?” Ritter said.
“That’s the very feller,” Red said.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Ritter said. He shook his head. “I thought he’d been hung years ago.” Now he addressed Buttons. “We’ll find the killer of Foxworthy, but we’ll draw a blank on Bryson, Deputy Muldoon. I really don’t think he’ll venture into Fredericksburg.” Ritter looked beyond Buttons, frowned and said, “Ach du lieber Himmel! What on earth is that woman doing?”
Red followed the sheriff’s stare. Augusta Addington stood at the spot where Foxworthy’s body had just been carried away by the undertakers, her head bent, eyes fixed on the ground. To his surprise, Della Stark, looking cross and out of sorts, stood at the entrance to the alley.
“Yes, Della, right there is where the killer stood,” Augusta said. “And judging by the tracks, his victim walked toward him a few steps before he was shot.”
“It’s hot,” Della said. “Are we finished?”
“Yes, we’re finished,” Augusta said. “Why don’t you get inside and have a nice cool drink?”
“About time,” Della said.
The girl crossed the street and stepped onto the Alpenrose Inn porch, and without slowing her pace, her high-heeled boots thudding on the timbers, passed Red and Buttons with her eyes averted, nose in the air as though she somehow blamed them for all her troubles, and walked into the hotel lobby.
Augusta followed, smiling, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
She wore her white day dress, formfitting with a minimal bustle, and a straw boater hat.
Red thought she looked wonderful, but Sheriff Ritter was less impressed.
“What were you doing out there in the street, Miss Addington?” he said.
Augusta waited until a dusty Buffalo soldier sergeant and four even dustier troopers, exhausted Apache hunters by the look of them, jangled past before she spoke. “Sheriff Ritter, I was merely honing my investigatory skills,” she said.
“Why?” Ritter said. “The murder of Nathaniel Foxworthy is my investigation, not yours. And since when do junge Damen of obviously good breeding get involved in murder?”
Augusta smiled. “Since I became a Pinkerton agent.”
“No!” Ritter said. “There are no female Pinkerton agents.”
“There are now, Sheriff Ritter,” Augusta said. “Like it or not.” Before the young sheriff could respond, she said, “The victim was crossing the street when someone called out to him from the alley where Miss Stark was standing. He stopped, turned, and took several steps in the direction of his attacker before he was shot.”
“I’m aware of all that,” Ritter said, irritation pinking his cheekbones.
“The question is, did Foxworthy know his attacker, or was this a random attack? I think neither,” Augusta said. “Dismiss the obvious, and what’s left is usually the truth . . . that the shooter thought Foxworthy recognized him and for that reason killed him.”
“Then who is the killer?” Ritter said, his annoyance revealed by his aggressive, fist-clenched stance.
“I don’t know,” Augusta said.
“I don’t know, either,” Ritter said. “But I intend to find out. Why are you here. Miss Addington? Pinkerton work?”
“At this time, I’d rather not say,” Augusta said. Then a moment of inspiration. “Miss Stark and I are friends, and I’m visiting for a while.”
Ritter took the explanation at face value. “Then enjoy your stay, but keep out of my investigation,” he said. Then to Red, “I don’t want another problem like I had with Hannah Huckabee . . . I mean dealing with the ways of wild women. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’d say you have,” Red said.
“Good, then we understand each other,” Ritter said. “Deputy Muldoon, come with me. We will start with the alley”—he angled a glare at Red—“that’s still to be properly searched, and then we’ll inspect the hotel registers, see what strangers are in town.”
Buttons seemed less than enthusiastic. “Seems a bit boring to me, Sheriff,” he said.
“Maybe, but that’s what routine police work is, Deputy Muldoon, boring. But it produces results.”