CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chris Mercer was nearest the parlor door. He stepped into the hallway and immediately took to a .44 to the chest from Kirill Kuznetsov’s Smith & Wesson Russian revolver. Instinct took over, and Mercer triggered the. 450 Bulldog. A hit. A shot to the belly that stopped Kuznetsov in his tracks, his face suddenly stricken. Beside him, Salman el Salim threw a knife that embedded itself to the hilt in Mercer’s left shoulder. Red Ryan fired. He fired again and Salman went down. Sean O’Rourke and Helmut Klemm, shocked by their violent reception, backed away from the door. El Salim had drawn his Colt and tried to get to his feet, but Manuel Garcia got his work in and fired at the Arab, who went down again. Hit smack in the middle of his forehead, he would not rise a second time. Red prepared to shoot at O’Rourke . . . but then disaster.
Ben Bradford burst out of his bedroom, still in nightgown and sleeping cap, threw up his hands and yelled, “No! Stop! Stop this at once.”
The doctor had stepped in front of Red’s gun and before he could adjust his position, O’Rourke’s .450 Adams barked twice and Bradford staggered as he took both shots in the chest. Kuznetsov, in shock from the bullet in his belly, was nonetheless a hard man to kill. But he made a bad mistake that no professional gun handler should ever make. Instead of engaging the two men who were still on their feet and shooting, he sought revenge on Mercer and fired into the dying man. Mercer had propped himself against the wall, but now he slid down to the floor, leaving a streak of blood on the floral wallpaper. Red and Garcia fired at the same time. Hit twice, the big Russian fell to his knees and then collapsed forward, hitting the ground with a thud that rattled the crockery in the kitchen.
When Red looked along the smoke-filled hallway, O’Rourke and Klemm had vanished, then the sound of running horses told him that they’d fled in the direction of the open prairie. When Red stepped outside, all he saw was dust as the two riders galloped into the maw of the misty gray morning. He fired a couple of shots at the fugitives and then went back inside to give his attention to the living and the dead.
Garcia had taken a knee beside the still form of Dr. Bradford. When he saw Red Ryan, he shook his head, unable to do anything for a dead man. Ignoring the fallen Kuznetsov and el Salim, Red went to Chris Mercer, who sat with his back against the wall. The death shadows had already gathered in his eyes and cheeks and despite his wounds he appeared to be in no pain.
“How is the doctor?” Mercer said. “I can’t . . . I can’t see him.”
“He’s going to be just fine,” Red said. “You saved his life.”
Mercer nodded. “I’m glad.” He managed a weak smile. “At the last moment I decided his life was worth more than mine.”
“You done good, Chris,” Red said. “You stood your ground and played the man’s part.”
Praise indeed from Red Ryan . . . but his words fell unheard on dead ears.
* * *
“I swear, every time the Patterson stage visits Fredericksburg it leaves behind a heap of dead men,” Sheriff Herman Ritter said. “How do you explain that, Ryan?”
“I guess we just bring trouble with us, Sheriff,” Red said. “Did you try to arrest the monks?”
“All we found were four empty monk robes,” Ritter said. “Then the shooting started.”
“I’m so relieved you were not hurt, Red,” Augusta Addington said.
Red took the woman in his arms and said, “You were right about the monks. I’ll never doubt your word again.”
Ritter said, “Yes, she was right, and I’ll let the Pinkertons know that they hired a great detective.” He frowned. “But she isn’t right about Gideon Stark. He’s not the one that hired those four gunmen to kill Dr. Bradford. I can assure you of that. But don’t worry, I’ll find the guilty party.”
Red and Manuel Garcia stood outside the doctor’s house with Augusta and Ritter, while Buttons Muldoon in his capacity as deputy sheriff kept the ogling crowd away from the door.
“And I can assure you that Stark is the culprit,” Augusta said. “He had Dr. Bradford murdered so that his daughter couldn’t marry him.”
“Where’s your proof, Miss Addington?” Ritter said. He looked beyond Augusta to Buttons and said, “Deputy Muldoon, is the posse mounted yet? Or are they still drinking coffee in the Alpenrose restaurant?”
“I see them, Sheriff,” Buttons said. He pointed. “Look, they’re headed this way.”
A dozen horsemen made up of three of the town’s wealthy merchants, the rest young clerks and apprentices, rode into view.
“Get mounted yourself, Deputy Muldoon. I’ll handle the crowd,” Ritter said. “Lead the posse to victory and bring back those killers.”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Buttons said. He looked like a suffering martyr in a Renaissance painting. “But after that I’m turning in my badge.”
“No, Deputy Muldoon, not yet. There’s too much to be done,” Ritter said. “We still have to find the killer of Nathaniel Foxworthy.”
Buttons ignored that, and Ritter said to Augusta, “Gideon Stark is one of the richest and most influential men in Texas. You accuse him at your peril. Even if you could bring such a wild accusation to court, have you any idea of the battery of expensive lawyers you’d face? Miss Addington, you are the one that could end up in jail.”
“Why don’t you ask his daughter if her father is behind Dr. Bradford’s murder, Sheriff?” Augusta said, her pink cheekbones betraying her anger.
“I will. Depend on it, I will, but it won’t get me anywhere. I expect Miss Della will laugh in my face.” Ritter watched Benny Bone and his men take away the bodies of Kuznetsov and el Salim, and then he turned and addressed the onlookers. “Return to your homes,” he said. “It’s all over here.”
“It’s a damn shame that a fine young doctor was murdered in his own home,” a plump matron in the crowd said. “And there’s still another killer loose in the streets.”
“I’ll find the killer, and I assure you the two men who helped murder Dr. Bradford will be arrested and brought to justice,” Ritter said. “Fear not, dear lady. And remember at election time, a vote for Ritter is a vote for reason.”
Years after these events, the matronly woman would say to a reporter, “Little did I know that day that a killer stood just a hoot and a holler away from me.”
Like moths drawn to a flame, Donny Bryson and Effie Bell showed up outside the doctor’s house soon after the shooting ended. Donny gathered from the conversations around him that four men who had earlier disguised themselves as monks had murdered the doctor. Two had been killed in the attack and all four had worn regular clothes. A search of the carpetbags tied to the saddles of the dead men revealed only a change of shirts and some food supplies. Both carried large sums of money in their wallets, but there was no mention of the golden staff of Moses. Donny could only assume that one of the two fugitives had it.
As the crowd drifted away, Donny said to the girl, “Time to saddle up.”
“Where are we going, Donny?” Effie said.
“The two that escaped have the golden staff. We’re going after them.”
The girl said, “But the posse . . .”
“Those rubes ain’t got a prayer of finding them boys,” Donny said. “They’ll raise a dust cloud that will be seen for miles.”
“But so will we, Donny,” Effie said.
“No, we won’t. I’m half Apache, and I’ve lived at my ease in deserts and plains where a white man would starve . . . and if I need to, I can track such a man to the gates of Hell and never be seen.”
Effie smiled. “Oh, Donny, we’re about to get rich.”
“Yeah, we are, but let’s find them monk men and kill them before we count our money,” Donny said.