CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Red Ryan kissed Augusta Addington at the door to her room.
“I’m not inviting you inside, Red,” she said as she gently pushed him away. “It’s too soon. I’ve got a lot to think about.”
Husky-voiced, Red said, “I understand.”
“You do?”
“Not really.”
“I’m a Pinkerton. Do I want to remain a Pinkerton, or would a love affair end my career?”
“A baby,” Red said. “A baby would end it.”
“Probably. Or if I got shot.”
“Let’s not think of either of those things,” Red said.
“Oh, but I must,” Augusta said. “I must think of those things and a lot of others.”
“I’m only a shotgun messenger. I could be something else. If that’s what you wanted.”
“And if you wanted me to stop being a Pinkerton, what else could I be?”
“My wife,” Red said.
“This is sudden,” Augusta said.
“I know.”
“Now I need even more time to think things through.”
“Take all the time you need,” Red said. “I’ll wait.”
Augusta kissed him again, a light brush of her lips. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You still plan to arrest the monks?” Red said.
“Yes, early. After I wake up Sheriff Ritter.”
“I’ll come with you,” Red said.
Augusta shook her head. “No, Red. This is a matter for the law.”
“Buttons Muldoon is a deputy,” Red said.
Augusta smiled. “Of a sort. Now I must leave you, Red. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
* * *
After the door closed on him, Red stood where he was for a while. Had he really proposed marriage? To Augusta Addington? To a beautiful woman so high above his station? The answer was obvious . . . yes, he had. And she hadn’t said no!
Red was too worked up to sleep just yet. He walked downstairs, through the darkened lobby, and onto the porch. Fredericksburg was in bed, the buildings silvered by moonlight, coyotes yipping out in the hill country. The air smelled clean, of the blue night, the dust of day long settled.
Red built a cigarette and enjoyed the quiet. He smoked for a few minutes and then turned to his right as he heard the slow thud of boots on the boardwalk, the footsteps of a weary man. Buttons Muldoon emerged from the heart of the night, his round face gloomy. A shiny new deputy’s star glinted on his chest.
Red grinned and said, “Good evening, thou sorrowful apparition.”
“That ain’t funny,” Buttons said.
“You catch the killer?”
“Not a sign of him.”
“Any new people arrive in town?”
“Only that little Bell gal and her brother, and he’s sick in bed and she says she’s worried that it might be something catching. Me and Ritter didn’t stay around to find out.”
“Walk with me, Buttons,” Red said.
“The heck I will. My feet hurt. It’s roosting time, and I’m for my bed.”
“Buttons, there’s something tugging at me,” Red said.
“Oh, no, don’t tell me. Not the Irish an dara sealladh again?”
“Yes. I have two sights, and it is the sight of the seer that’s troubling me.”
“Your mother told you that, didn’t she? That you have the gift?”
“My Irish stepmother told me that. She saw it in me. But she said it’s not a gift but a curse.”
Buttons grabbed the makings from Red’s shirt pocket, looked down at the tobacco and papers, and said, “What do you see in your crystal ball this time?”
“It’s not what I see, Buttons, it’s what I feel.”
The driver made an untidy cigarette, lit it, and said, talking out smoke, “So what do you feel then?”
“It’s tugging at me, Buttons.”
“Then tell me, damnit.”
“I think Dr. Ben Bradford’s life is now in the greatest danger,” Red said.
“Heck, we already know that,” Buttons said, weariness making him snappy. “That’s why Archibald is with him.”
“Chris Mercer is a useless drunk,” Red said. “He can’t protect anybody.”
“So your second sight is telling you that we should. Is that it?”
“Yes, but only tonight,” Red said. “Augusta plans to get Sheriff Ritter to arrest the assassins tomorrow morning.”
Buttons made a face. “You know that Ritter doesn’t drink? I mean, not even a beer. I’ve been so thirsty all day I’ve been spitting cotton.” He drew deeply on his cigarette, and the tip glowed bright red in the darkness. “Miss Augusta still think it’s them four holy monks?”
“Yes. She thinks they’re gunmen in disguise,” Red said.
“Heck, Red, a false beard is a disguise,” Buttons said. “Not a heavy, itchy brown robe.”
“I reckon they must be careful men,” Red said. Then, “Buttons, I need you with me tonight.”
“Count off the reasons why.”
“You’re steady, determined, handy with the iron, and the bravest man I know,” Red said.
“And good-looking,” Buttons said. “You forgot that.”
“Yeah, and good-looking too,” Red said.
“All right, I’ll do it,” Buttons said. “The sawbones has got to have a comfortable couch where I can stretch out. You can wake me up when we get attacked by a bloodthirsty band of holy monks.”