CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The search through the stack of wanted dodgers on Sheriff Herman Ritter’s desk took Red Ryan all of fifteen minutes and produced no results. In recent years the breed Donny Bryson had tended to operate east of the Colorado, and it seemed his reward posters hadn’t made it this far.
Disappointed, Red left the sheriff’s office and headed back to the Alpenrose.
The young Fredericksburg belles he passed in the street, walking with stern, matronly mothers who hit the ground firmly with each step, were mostly blonde, pigtailed, and robust, and more than a few fluttered their eyelashes as he walked by. Red later calculated that he’d smiled and touched the brim of his derby half a dozen times before he reached the inn’s front porch. And there he paused as two events attracted his attention.
The first, and a sight to see, was four mounted monks . . . or were they assassins as Augusta feared? . . . as they trotted from the hotel corral onto Main Street and then headed out of town. All four had their hooded robes hiked up for riding, sandaled feet in the stirrups. Red put that out of his mind for the moment, his entire focus on the man who’d just sauntered onto the porch of a hardware store across the street. Tall, lean, with long hair spilling over the shoulders of a gray shirt, he leaned against one of the pillars and built a cigarette, his eyes fixed on the departing monks. He wore his holstered Colt fairly high, the handle between wrist and elbow, all of the cartridge loops on the belt filled. A breed by the dark, high-cheekboned look of him, there was an air of confident, self-assurance about the man, a bulletproof arrogance that Red had only seen in named shootists.
He studied the man more closely, and an alarm bell rang in his head.
A breed . . . hard-faced and significant . . . wearing a gun as though he was born to it . . . ignored by passersby and therefore a stranger . . . black eyes watchful, never at rest . . .
It slowly dawned on Red . . . this man could be Donny Bryson.
Then something happened that quickly threw his assumption in doubt.
The girl named Effie Bell that he’d met in the alley stepped out of a nearby baker’s shop with a wedge of yellow cake in her hand. She walked quickly along the boardwalk, smiling, and threw herself into the man’s arms. The two embraced briefly, and the girl offered the man a bite of the cake. The breed bit off a piece, chewed, and then asked the girl something. She nodded and produced from the pocket of her dress . . . a string of coral pink rosary beads. The breed took the beads, kissed the cross, grinned, and handed them back.
Red was stunned. Mortified. He’d misjudged the man and blundered badly. The breed was obviously Effie’s brother, or perhaps half-brother. Raised by a devout stepmother, Red Ryan knew that a rosary was much prized by Catholics and not something that a violent killer like Donny Bryson would revere. And they were eating cake together, for God’s sake . . . how innocent was that?
Feeling slightly foolish, Red figured that the day was hot, the walk from the sheriff’s office had been long and sweaty, and it was time for a stein of beer. But then Effie Bell crossed the street toward him. When she reached the Alpenrose porch, to make up for his earlier suspicions, he touched his hat brim and said, “Miss Bell.” The girl gave him a perfunctory smile and walked into the lobby.
Red glanced across the street and saw Effie’s brother watching him. He realized that with a killer on the loose he could be anxious about the safety of his sister. Determined to right his previous wrong, Red smiled, gave the man a reassuring wave and followed the girl inside.
“. . . is one of the reverend monks, and I want to give this to him. It was our dead mother’s rosary,” she said.
“Your brother is one of the monks, you say,” the desk clerk said.
“Yes, my oldest brother. His name is Friar Benedict.”
“How did you know he was here, Miss . . . ah . . .”
“Bell. Effie Bell. He wired me in Austin, where my other brother and I live. It’s been years, and my brother, he’s a little older than Benedict and me, is much overcome at meeting him again and is waiting outside to obtain a firmer grasp on his emotions.”
The clerk, middle-aged, baby-faced, thin brown hair parted in the middle of his small head and round glasses that gave him the look of an owl, said, “I’m so sorry, Miss Bell, but you just missed your brother. He and the other monks rode out earlier to search for a site to build a mission.” He shook his head. “I warned them about the Apache outbreak, but they wouldn’t listen. They figure God will protect them, I guess.”
Effie smiled. “My brother was always headstrong. I’ll return later, but I’d like to leave the rosary in his room. He’ll know where it came from.”
“The monks are sharing one room, Miss Bell. We put in an extra cot, but they must be pretty crowded up there.”
The girl’s smile was a mix of pride and amusement. “Brother Benedict will offer up the discomfort as a penance. Now, may I leave my mother’s rosary for him to find when he returns?”
The clerk smiled. “How sweet. Of course, you can. It’s Room Twenty-two, upstairs and to your right. I’ll get you the key.”
“Thank you,” Effie said. She took the key and said, “I’ll just wave to my brother so he knows all is well.”
Red stepped aside to let the girl pass. She returned a moment later and said to the clerk, “Brother Benedict will be so happy.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will,” the clerk said, looking pleased.
* * *
After the girl walked up the stairs, Red Ryan left the lobby, beer on his mind, and met Esau Pickles, who stood on the porch looking out into busy, dusty Main Street. Red glanced across the road, but Miss Bell’s brother was gone.
“Howdy again, Red,” Pickles said. “They caught that killer yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Red said, “Buttons got himself deputized and is with the sheriff trying to find him.”
Pickles shook his head. “Any lowlife who’d gun a whiskey drummer would piss on a widder woman’s kindlin’.”
“You got that right,” Red said. “All a whiskey drummer does is spread a little joy in the world.”
“Him and a brewer,” Pickles said. Then, “When are you boys hitting the road again?”
“Buttons is still trying to rustle up passengers.”
“He ain’t gonna rustle up passengers playing lawman with Herman Ritter.”
“Seems like,” Red said.
“You know what I reckon?” Pickles said. “I reckon the man who shot the whiskey drummer is one of them temperance rannies down on demon drink. One time I went to a meeting where one of them, a feller by the name of the Reverend Brown, was speechifying and he reads a poem to all us drunks in the audience that I still recollect. It went . . .
“Oh, thou demon drink, thou fell destroyer,
Thou curse of society, and its greatest annoyer.
What has thou done to society? Let me think . . .
I answer thou has caused the most of ills, thou demon drink.”
Pickles stared hard at Red and said, “Now that’s a fine poem, a great poem, but folks who think that way would put a bullet in a whiskey drummer fast as a duck on a june bug. If you see him before I do, you tell that to Deputy Sheriff Muldoon.”
“I sure will, Esau,” Red said. “And you’re right, that is some powerful poetry. I once read in a newspaper that drinking leads to neglect of duty, moral degradation, and crime. And that’s very true, but only for some folks. It don’t apply to responsible imbibers like us.”
“So, where are you headed, shotgun man?” Pickles said.
“I figured I’d have myself a few steins of beer. Want to join me?”
But before Pickles could answer, the desk clerk walked onto the porch and said to Red, “A touching scene, was it not, Mr. Ryan?”
“Huh?” Red said.
“Miss Bell leaving a token of love for her cloistered brother,” the clerk said.
“Yeah, I guess it was,” Red said. “I met her in the alley after the shooting. She talked about her brother, but she didn’t mention a second brother being a monk.”
“Perhaps she was afraid you’d think her boastful,” the clerk said.
“Maybe so,” Red said. “I guess she sets store by having kin in holy orders.” He smiled. “Holy orders. My stepmother used to say that.”
“Is she still alive, your stepmother?” the clerk said.
“No. She and my father were took by the cholera when I was just a younker,” Red said. “I don’t remember my real mother at all, and I barely remember my father, a big man with a beard and a silver watch chain. But I remember my stepmother. She was gentle, and she smelled good, and she sang all the time, Irish songs and hymns mostly.”
“That’s a crackerjack memory, Red, but my Pa was hung for a hoss thief,” Esau Pickles said. “Lookin’ back, it seems like a whole passel of us Pickles was hung, I mean everybody and the dog. Seems like my kin couldn’t keep their mitts off other folks’ plunder, and that habit done fer them.” He shook his head. “Strange that. I mean how it all come about, them being thieves an’ all. No watermelon patch was safe when a Pickle was around, an’ that’s a natural fact.”
Red smiled. “Glad that you’re such an upstanding citizen, Esau. A credit to Pickles everywhere, hung and as yet unhung.”
The old man nodded. “Thankee, Red. Truth is I never wanted anything bad enough to steal it.”
The desk clerk looked over his shoulder. “Seems Miss Bell should have returned by now,” he said.
“She probably used the back door,” Esau said. “Taking the alley home.”
That familiar alarm ran in Red’s head again.
“I think we should go look for her,” he said.
“I don’t wish to intrude,” the clerk said.
“I do,” Red said. “The alley isn’t a safe place for a woman to be. Let’s go.”
* * *
The room smelled of men, was untidy, four opened carpetbags on the floor and razors and soap brushes on the dresser around the water pitcher. A monkish room that held no surprises. The pink coral rosary lay on the table by the bed and the only thing missing was the long case that held the staff of Moses. Red didn’t remember seeing one of the monks carry it when they rode out of town but then he didn’t really look at them closely. And after all, the staff was a holy relic and too precious to leave behind.
“It seems Miss Bell took the back door,” the desk clerk said.
“Looks like,” Red said.
But something about the girl and her brother troubled him.
* * *
“It’s a rifle, a damn sharpshooter’s rifle,” Donny Bryson said. He swore under his breath, then, “It’s worth about maybe fifty dollars.” He glared at Effie Bell. “They took the golden staff with them.”
“Why do monks need a rifle like that one?” Effie said. “What’s that brass thing?”
“It’s a telescopic sight,” Donny said. “It brings the target closer up and sharp. Maybe the monks figure they’ll need a rifle to shoot their chuck when they’re building the mission.”
“They’ll be back, Donny,” Effie said.
“Yeah, and we’ll need to keep an eye on their comings and goings,” Donny said. “The next time they ride out, I’m heading after them.”
“Bet you never shot a monk afore,” Effie said, grinning.
“I never did, but there’s a first time for everything.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Of course, you are. I ain’t leaving you here in Fredericksburg.”
“Do you like me, Donny?” Effie said.
“Sure. I like you.”
“Do you love me?”
“What’s that? What’s love?”
“It’s when you feel that you more than just like a person.”
“Nah, I don’t feel that,” Donny said. “I said I like you, and that’s it. There’s nothing more.”
The girl smiled slightly. “That’s enough for me.”
“And so it should be,” Donny said. He picked up the Marlin-Ballard. “Now shut your trap while I figure out this here fancy meat gitter.”