Chapter Forty

The old coaching inn on Broad Street that doubled as the Patterson stage depot was a two-story stucco building with corrals around back and an adjoining open area where stages could be parked, washed, and cleaned out. The inn boasted twelve guest rooms, a restaurant, and bar. The proprietor was a former Butterfield driver by the name of Gil Hooper who walked with a limp after taking a road agent’s bullet to his right leg years before. It was Hooper’s considered opinion that the coming of the Texas and New Orleans Railroad was the worst thing that had ever happened to his fair city of New Orleans, and he prophesied that the clanging of locomotive bells would sound the death knell of the stagecoaching industry.

Sitting in a rocker on the inn’s front porch, Hooper told Buttons Muldoon that very thing, but it was something Buttons had heard the old man say many times before, and he was only half listening.

Hooper realized he didn’t have the Patterson driver’s full attention, and he changed the subject from railroads to Red Ryan.

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” Hooper said. “Nor you, come to that, Buttons.”

“Yeah, we pretty much stick to the northern routes,” Buttons said. He decided not to go into details. “We’re in New Orleans because we brung in a feller who’s meeting a ship here.”

“City’s full of damned sailors,” Hooper said. “Drinkin’ and whorin’, pretty soon they’re gonna give New Orleans a bad name. And talkin’ of drinkin’ and whorin’, how is Ryan?”

“He’s doing just fine,” Buttons said. He laid back in his rocker, a schooner of beer in his hand, and studied the young man sitting in a chair not far from him. He didn’t look American, the clothes were all wrong, a much tighter, tailored fit. A foreigner of some kind then. A moment later, when the man ordered coffee and a beignet from one of Hooper’s waiters, Buttons pegged him as an Englishman since he sounded just like Latimer. A tourist, probably.

“I’m glad to hear Red’s still above ground,” Hooper said. He had a gray beard and blue eyes and was missing most of his teeth. “Shotgun messengers don’t last long in Texas.”

Buttons nodded. “How many did you go through in the old Butterfield days, Gil?”

“Lost four in my time,” Hooper said. “Tom Barnes got shot by road agents and so did Kit Johnson. Comanches done for Micah Rawlins and then there was a kid, I don’t remember his name, but he got his neck broke when the coach overturned when I was following the old Ox-Bow Route up in the New Mexico Territory.” Hooper shook his head. “I felt real sorry for that kid. Me and six passengers didn’t even get a scratch.”

“How it goes sometimes,” Buttons said. “I mind the time—”

“Drinking beer early, ain’t you, Buttons?” Red Ryan said.

“It’s never too early to drink beer. Where are the passengers, Red?”

“Former passengers,” Red said. “Howdy, Gil.”

“Good to see you again, Red. Glad you ain’t been shot,” Hooper said, extending his hand.

Red shook hands with the old driver and then said to Buttons, “Hannah is still in her room, and John Latimer and Mr. Chang left after breakfast. Latimer said something about talking to the captain of the British warship in the harbor.”

“Giving himself up?” Buttons said.

“Seems like. That’s what Mr. Chang told me is happening. He’s going along to make sure Latimer isn’t clapped in irons.”

Buttons eyes were again drawn to the young Englishman, who rose quickly from his chair, leaving his coffee and beignet untouched. He stepped off the porch, hurried into the street, and was soon lost among the passersby.

Buttons wondered at that and then dismissed it. The Patterson passengers were delivered to their destination, and that was his only concern. He took a pull on his beer and relaxed. Life was good.

“Pull up a rocker and sit down and relax, Red,” Buttons said. “It’s about time you gave yourself a rest.”

“Maybe later,” Red said.

Gil Hooper said, “Ryan, sit for a spell and watch the world go by. If a man insisted always on being serious, and never allowed himself a bit of fun and relaxation, he would go mad or unstable without knowing it.” The old driver winked. “You know who said that?”

“I’ve no idea,” Red said.

“The ancient Greek historian Herodotus. That old boy knew what he was talking about.”

That last didn’t surprise Red in the least. Western men were voracious readers and since books were comparatively rare on the frontier, they devoured every volume they could lay their hands on, from dime novels to the classics. Many could quote Shakespeare chapter and verse and often did when the occasion demanded. Gil Hooper was no exception,

“Well, since you put it that way, Gil, I guess I’ll sit for a while,” Red said. “They say it’s good for the digestion.”