CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

After leaving the livery, Gideon Stark walked toward the Alpenrose Inn. His headache had worsened, and he was in considerable pain, but that only strengthened his resolve to deal with the Addington woman. He’d let Garcia take care of Ryan, the shotgun messenger.

Stark had it all planned. He’d tell the desk clerk that he wanted to talk with Miss Addington. “It’s a private business matter, you understand.” A five-dollar gold piece would make the man more cooperative. Then, when the deed was done. “Miss Addington is indisposed and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.” By the time the woman’s body was found he’d be well on his way back to the ranch and he’d be the last man on earth anyone would suspect. He’d say, “Oh my God, when I last saw her, she was so happy that she was coming to work for me as a bookkeeper.”

Despite his headache and the throbbing in his left arm, Stark smiled. Keep it simple. That was the ticket.

Five dollars made the desk clerk smile, and he quickly provided Mr. Stark with Augusta’s room number, adding his hope that their business dealings would be successful “for both parties.”

“I’m sure it will,” Stark said. He wore black broadcloth and hand-tooled boots, the very picture of a prosperous cattle rancher.

Gideon Stark tapped on Augusta’s door.

“Who is it?” A woman’s voice from within.

“Gideon Stark, Miss Addington. Please, it’s a matter of the greatest moment that I speak to you about Della. She’s been badly hurt.”

Against her better judgment, Augusta opened the door. “Come in,” she said, admitting a stocky man of average height with hard, weather-beaten features who looked to have great strength in his arms and shoulders, the result of decades of hard, physical work.

“What can I do for you?” Augusta said, her hardened eyes signaling her dislike of this man.

As to what happened next . . . that has proven to be controversial over the years.

The newspapers of the day would have us believe that for a solid hour Augusta Addington berated Stark for a scoundrel and low down. She blamed him for the death of Dr. Bradford and promised that she would see him hang . . . adding, as a postscript to her tirade, “And be damned to ye.” On hearing that last, realizing that he was undone, an enraged Stark then viciously attacked the helpless woman.

Only the final part of that account is true. Stark didn’t go to the Alpenrose to talk that day . . . he went there to kill.

Bear in mind that the rancher planned to keep things simple, and indeed he did.

He closed the door behind him, turned quickly and savagely backhanded Augusta across the face, a powerful blow that staggered her and sent her reeling to the floor. She fell onto her hands and knees, blood and saliva stringing from her mouth.

Stark took the garrote from the sack and instantly darted behind the woman. Augusta had no time to scream before the wire bit into her throat and the man crossed his arms at the wrist and used both hands to push violently on the handles, tightening the wire, driving the cruel barbs deeper into her throat and neck, drawing thin rivulets of blood.

“Die,” Stark said though gritted teeth. “Die, you damned whore . . .”

Then a terrible cry of a man in mortal agony.

The pressure on Augusta’s neck ceased, and Gideon Stark thumped to the floor beside her. His eyes were terrified, and the left side of his face and body seemed paralyzed. Stark had just suffered a massive stroke and already his brain cells started to die at a rate of two million a minute, robbing him of speech. He reached out to Augusta with his right hand, making unintelligible, gurgling noises that were desperate pleas for help.

Augusta removed the garrote from her throat, dropped it on the floor, and staggered to her feet. Her voice tattered by the ravages of the wire, she managed, “There is no help, you sorry piece of trash.”

Stark dragged himself across the floor, his hand still raised, eyes frightened, gasping, choking, beseeching, begging . . . appealing for his life. He grabbed onto the hem of Augusta’s dress, and she jerked it away from him.

“What would you give up for Dr. Bradford to be here to save you, Stark?” she said. “All your dreams, all your yearnings . . . what else?”

Stark was fast losing his sight, his eyes searching, seeing only a blur.

“All you can do now is die,” Augusta said. “And let your greed, avarice, and ambitions die with you.”

All the life that was in Gideon Stark left him a few moments later. There is one thing historians are agreed upon . . . he had neither a painless nor a peaceful death.

* * *

The hotel room door burst open, and Red Ryan rushed inside. He took in the scene at a glance and ran to Augusta. She bled from her throat, and the front of her dress was streaked with scarlet. Red took her in his arms and she spoke into his shoulder.

“Stark tried to kill me, Red,” she said, forcing the blood-clogged words. She turned her head and nodded to the garrote. “With . . . with that monstrosity.”

Esau Pickles stepped into the room. He’d taken the stairs as fast as his gamy leg would allow, and he panted for breath. “Red, what the heck?” he said, looking around him. “What’s happened here?”

“Later, Esau,” Red said. “Go bring a doctor.”

“Old Dr. Monroe is close,” Pickles said. “One time he helped me with the croup and . . .”

“Bring him,” Red yelled. “And hurry.”

As Pickles scuttled out of the room, Red helped Augusta onto the bed. She seemed to be in shock, her eyes were glazed, her torn throat was a bloody mess, and he knew with awful certainty she’d be scarred for life.

* * *

“Hey, amigo,” Manuel Garcia said to Esau Pickles as the old man rushed out of the inn. “You see Gideon Stark, the rancher in there? Maybe lunching in the dining room?”

“Gideon Stark?” Pickles said. “Yeah, I seen him. He’s upstairs in Miss Addington’s room, stone-cold dead. And now I got to go. Miss Addington is hurt bad.”

Garcia didn’t wait to hear that last. He ran into the hotel, past the startled desk clerk, and took the stairs two at a time. The door to Augusta’s room was open, and Garcia slowed to a walk and stepped inside.

He saw Stark lying on the floor, then Augusta on the bed with a bloody towel around her neck. Garcia took a knee beside Stark and pushed the man over on his back. He crossed himself hurriedly and said, “What happened?”

Red Ryan booted the garrote in the vaquero’s direction. It skittered across the floor and hit the man’s boot. “Stark tried to strangle Augusta using that,” he said. “He almost succeeded. Look at the blood on his hands.”

Garcia’s eyes were cold, his voice flat, menacing. “How did my patron die?” he said.

The vaquero’s loyalty to the brand drove him, an emotion Red Ryan had seen many times before among cowboys and understood.

“As he tried to murder Augusta, his heart stopped,” Red said. “He had an apoplexy that paralyzed him down one side. That’s why half his face is twisted.”

“Mr. Stark was never sick,” Garcia said, disbelief in his tone. “He was a strong man.”

“Yeah, well it seems his ticker was sick,” Red said. “And in the end, it killed him and saved Augusta Addington’s life.” Red took a step away from the bed, his gun hand out from his right side and ready. “Garcia, are you here to give me a problem?” he said.

Augusta coughed and then whimpered and arched her back in pain.

The vaquero shook his head. “I want no trouble with you, Ryan. You told me the how of it, now tell me the why.”

“You know the story, Garcia. Stark wanted his daughter to marry a rich rancher, but Della threatened to ruin his plans when she fell in love with Dr. Bradford. Those gunmen that attacked us this morning were bought and paid for by Gideon Stark. Your boss wanted the doctor dead.”

“It’s hard to believe,” Garcia said. “Mr. Stark . . . my boss . . .”

“It was Della who sent for a Pinkerton to investigate her father,” Red said. “Maybe she believed it. Or at least, half-believed it. I don’t know.”

“I will take the patron’s body back to the ranch for burial,” Garcia said, talking to no one but himself.

“No, you won’t. Not yet. What’s going on here?” Sheriff Herman Ritter stepped into the room. He had his gun drawn. “I met Esau Pickles in the street, and he said there had been a murder.”

“Attempted murder,” Red said. “Gideon Stark tried to kill Augusta Addington.” He picked up the garrote from the floor. “With this.”

Ritter backed away from the bloody wire as though he was afraid to touch it. “Why?” he said.

And Red told him.

Echoing Garcia, Ritter said, “It’s hard to believe.” He looked at the body on the floor. “Gideon Stark of all people. Mein Gott.”

“He was an ambitious man,” Red said. Then, after adjusting the bloodstained towel around Augusta’s neck, “Where is that damned doctor?”

“The damned doctor is here,” John Monroe said, a stocky, white-haired man who wore pince-nez glasses at the end of his snub nose. He looked unflustered and competent. “All of you out,” he said. “Leave the patient some air to breathe.”

“Doc, is she going to be all right?” Red said.

“Son, how would I know?” Monroe said. “I haven’t examined her yet. Now out. All of you.”

“The man on the floor is dead,” Ritter said, “Apoplexy.”

“It doesn’t take a doctor to see that,” Monroe said. “A massive stroke, for sure. He’s been dead for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Aren’t you going to examine him?” Ritter said.

Monroe bent over Stark, felt the man’s neck, straightened and said, “There, I’ve examined him, Sheriff. He’s dead.”

“One more thing,” Red said. He held up the thick, viciously spiked wire. “This is what he used to try and strangle Miss Addington.”

Monroe looked at the garrote and nodded. “Yes, I see. Now get out of here.”

Red and the others stepped out of the room and stood in the hallway. Red built a cigarette, as did Garcia, and they both smoked. Sheriff Ritter, looking worried, seemed as though he was trying to say something helpful, intelligent, or at least official, but gave up the attempt and stood with his back to the wall, his face empty.

Red smoked three cigarettes before the door opened and Dr. Monroe stepped into the hallway. “How is she, Doctor?” Ritter said.

“She’s still in shock, but she’ll be fine,” Monroe said. “I treated the wounds on her throat and the sides of her neck and then I bandaged her. I’ll come see her again tomorrow to make sure that there’s no sign of infection.” The doctor looked at Red and said, “My female patients tell me the fashion trend is for dresses with high collars. That is good, because she’ll need them . . . at least for a while until the scars fade.” Then to Ritter. “Did you send for Benny Bone to take care of the dead man?”

Garcia answered that question. “He was my patron. I will take him back to his ranch.”

Monroe nodded and then said, “Any progress in finding the killer of that poor whiskey salesman, Sheriff Ritter?”

“Not yet, but my investigation is proceeding apace,” Ritter said.

“I hope you find him soon,” Monroe said. “First the drummer and then Dr. Bradford. It’s getting to be that a man can’t sleep safe in his bed at night.”

“I have a posse out now on the trail of two of the men connected with the doctor’s slaying,” Ritter said.

Monroe shook his head. “A bad business, Ritter,” he said. “You’d better stay on top of things around here. You know that Bill Summers is considering a run for sheriff?”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Ritter said.

“A good man, Bill,” Monroe said. “Fought in Tennessee under General Patrick Cleburne in the war.” He tipped his hat. “Well, good day to you gentlemen. I have impatient patients waiting.” He smiled. “Just a little doctor’s joke.”

* * *

Red Ryan sat on the bed and took Augusta Addington’s hand. “How are you feeling?” he said. He shook his head. “Stupid question. I think I have a good idea about how you feel.”

Augusta tried to smile, failed, and said, “The doctor gave me something for the pain. I feel all right.”

“You’ll be up and about in no time,” Red said. “I see the roses coming back to your cheeks already.”

“Dr. Monroe says the scars will go away when I’m an old lady,” Augusta said.

Red kissed her pale mouth. “Then we’ll celebrate that day, you and me,” he said.

“Yes, we will,” Augusta said. She squeezed Red’s hand. “Just the two of us.”