Chapter Thirty-seven
Buttons Muldoon expected a trouble-free ride to New Orleans, especially since Hannah Huckabee elected to ride inside the stage for the first time since leaving Fort Concho.
“Miss Hannah and Latimer seemed to have kissed and made up,” he said to Red.
“I don’t know that they’re on kissing terms, but at least she and Latimer are being polite to one another,” Red said.
“Well, it’s a start,” Buttons said.
“Maybe they’ll pick up where they left off before that business in India,” Red said. “I guess we’ll see, huh?” Then, his eyes on the trail ahead, he said, “The new team seems to be pulling all right.”
Buttons nodded. “They’re doing just fine.” He smiled. “Jed Singer knows horses. We’ll change again at Horseshoe Bluff. If old Silas Brown is still running things, the grub will be a sight better.”
After an hour of travel on level ground, the stage entered a stretch of shallow, rolling hills and then encountered wagon ruts that crossed their path then headed east, ending at an isolated cabin barely visible in the distance, half obscured by a stand of wild oak and stunted juniper.
“What the hell is that doing out here?” Buttons said.
“Beats me,” Red said. His eyes on the cabin. “I never expected to see a homestead out here.”
Buttons drew rein on the team. “I was sure there was nothing between the Singer place and the Horseshoe,” he said. “I reckon that’s an abandoned cabin. Looks run-down enough.”
“Seems like,” Red said.
Buttons took up the reins to drive on, but stopped when a single shot rang out. “What the hell?” he said, as a thin cloud of white gunsmoke drifted through the tree trunks.
“That came from the cabin,” Red said.
“Where did the bullet go?” Buttons said.
“Whoever fired the shot wasn’t shooting at us,” Red said.
“What’s going on, Ryan?” Sage Barnard said, his head sticking out of the stage window.
“I don’t know,” Red said. “The shot came from the cabin but wasn’t aimed at us.”
“Well, I reckon I’ll go find out,” Buttons said. “There’s something mighty strange going on here.”
He urged the team into motion and then followed the wagon ruts in the direction of the cabin. The stage rolled down a slight grade and passed over patches of bottlebrush, hawthorn, and red burning bush. It seemed that a wagon hadn’t come this way in some considerable time.
The cabin was square, without a corral or outbuildings, a drab, cheerless place that had no right to be there, a wreck adrift in an endless sea of grass.
Buttons told Red to stand by with the shotgun and then halted the stage. He stood in the box and yelled, “Hello the house.”
A minute ticked past and then a weak man’s voice from inside the cabin called, “In here.”
“I’ll go find out,” Red said.
“No, wait,” Buttons said. “It could be a trap.” Then, yelling, “State your intentions. We’re careful men out here.”
Again, there was a long pause before the man inside spoke again. “Help me. I’m shot.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Red said. He climbed down, took the shotgun from Buttons, and walked toward the cabin. Sage Barnard joined him, looked at Red, and said, “Are all your stage journeys so eventful?”
Red smiled. “Some are, some are not. But now when I study on it, most are.”
“Well, this one sure is,” Barnard said. He had a short-barreled Colt in his hand.
“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Red said. “We don’t know what’s happened here yet.”
“Nothing good, I’ll wager,” Barnard said.
The cabin’s front door was ajar on its rawhide hinges. Red pushed it open with the barrel of the Greener and then stepped inside. He saw a single room with a dirt floor, a bed with a colorful patchwork quilt against one wall, and a few spare furnishings, including an easy chair in front of a stone fireplace. A vase containing wildflowers spoke to a woman’s presence.
A middle-aged man, gray at the temples, sat propped up against the far wall. There was blood on the front of his shirt, and beside him lay a single-shot squirrel rifle.
He looked up at Red with pained eyes and said, slowly and painfully, “Renegades . . . took my woman . . . took my milk cow . . .” He pushed an empty tin money box with his foot. “Took two hundred dollars . . . every penny we had.”
Red kneeled beside the man and examined his wound. After a while he said, “Mister, I won’t piss in your boots and tell you it’s raining. It looks bad.”
“Figured that. I took a Winchester bullet to the chest and knew I was done for. Name’s Bill Morton. Maybe you could do me a kindness and put that on my grave marker.”
The man knew he was dying, and Red said nothing to soften the blow. “Red Ryan,” he said. “Shotgun guard with the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Morton said, trying his best to smile.
Sage Barnard said, “Who were these renegades?”
“Four of them. A couple of white men dressed up like Mexicans and two Apaches,” Morton answered. “They said they’d come up from the Sierra Madre and crossed the border a week ago. That’s all they told us before they cut up rough and shot me and grabbed my woman.”
The little cabin suddenly became crowded when Hannah, Buttons, John Latimer, and Mr. Chang stepped inside.
Hannah immediately went to the wounded man, smoothed his hair back from his fevered forehead and, as Red had done earlier, studied Morton’s wound.
“Mr. Chang,” she said, her voice small.
The Chinese kneeled beside the man and his slender fingertips explored the wound. He looked at Hannah and shook his head.
Morton saw that and said, talking directly to Hannah, “Me, I never had much. Worked as a laborer all my life and never owned nothing but the clothes I stood up in. But I worked harder and saved money, and two years ago I brought Effie, my bride, out here. Figured I’d buy stock and start a ranch. But we had a bad winter, and then the Apaches played hob. And now the renegades took my woman and my last two hundred dollars.” This time Bill Morton did manage a smile. “Seems like everything went to hell real fast, huh?”
Hannah said, “Don’t try to talk. Save your strength.” Mr. Chang, bring the canteen from the stage.”
“Miss Huckabee take good care of the sick,” Mr. Chang said.
“The pain is all gone,” Morton said. “That means I’m dying, don’t it?”
Hannah said, “I think it’s time you made peace with your Maker, Mr. Morton.”
“Done that already. I’ve always been on speaking terms with God,” the man said. Then, “Shotgun guard . . . I . . . I . . . can’t see you.”
Red kneeled again. “I’m right here.”
Morton’s bloody hand reached up and grabbed Red by the arm. “Save my Effie. She’s a good woman.” The man’s voice faded as his breathing faltered. “Shotgun guard . . . save her . . .”
Bill Morton gasped then closed his eyes.
Mr. Chang brought the canteen to a dead man.
* * *
“We couldn’t save Dahteste, but maybe we can save Effie Morton,” Hannah Huckabee said. “I’m all for trying. Does anyone else feel the same as I do?”
Buttons Muldoon said, “Them renegades got a head start. I say we head for New Orleans.” He looked at Red with pleading eyes. “Red, there’s already been enough distractions on this trip. The last thing we need is another.”
“Those boys won’t have gotten far,” Red said. “They’re dragging along a milk cow, and since the chances are they don’t drink milk, they probably plan to butcher her and eat fried liver for supper tonight.”
“I don’t like to think of a white woman in the hands of border scum like those outlaws,” Sage Barnard said. “It’s mighty hard to turn our backs on her and just ride away like nothing happened.”
“I have a schedule to keep,” Buttons said, looking miserable.
“What’s more important, Mr. Muldoon, your schedule or a woman’s life?” Hannah said. “Remember Dahteste.”
“It’s mighty hard to forget her, Miss Hannah,” Buttons said.
“There’s still four hours of daylight,” Red said. “We have to make a decision soon.”
“Then I’ll leave it to the passengers,” Buttons said, “To keep it official, like, I’m putting it to a vote. All those in favor of heading directly for New Orleans raise your hands.”
No hands were raised.
Buttons shook his head and, resignation in his voice, he said, “Then it’s unanimous. We go try to save Mrs. Morton.”
“I’ll go,” Red said. “And Barnard, I’d be beholden to you if you agree to come along.”
“Red, I’ll join you,” Latimer said.
“And me too,” Hannah said.
“No. There’s four of them, and when I track them down, it will call for close-up and sudden work,” Red said. “Apart from me, the only one among us with that kind of speed is Barnard.”
The gambler smiled. “Sure, I’ll come,” he said. “It’s been a while since I tracked down a pack of killers. Makes a man hanker for the good old days before the West got so civilized.”
“I reckon the men we’re going after don’t fit into the civilized category,” Red said.
“I agree with you there, Ryan,” Barnard said.
Hannah frowned. “But—”
“No buts,” Red said. “Hannah, you’ve done enough. Leave it to the men this time, huh?”
“Four hours of daylight, Ryan,” Barnard said. “High time we were making tracks.”
“You want I can cut a couple of horses out of the team, if’n you can ride them without bridles,” Buttons said. “Trouble is, they’re young and don’t know too much.”
“We’ll walk,” Red said. “Keep to the long grass and injun up on them boys. I have a feeling they’re not far away and maybe spending time with the woman.”
“Then, Red, and you, too, Mr. Barnard, be careful,” Hannah said.
Red shook his head and grinned. “Being careful isn’t going to get the job done, not on this trip. Ready, Barnard?”
“I’m always ready,” the gambler said.