Chapter Forty-nine
Two cabs clattered to a halt in the industrial section of the business district. Red Ryan and Hannah Huckabee, dressed in her safari clothes and pith helmet and goggles, climbed out of one, Buttons Muldoon and Mr. Chang from the other. But not before Buttons gave the cabbie a piece of his mind about his sloppy work with the lines and the poor job he’d made of harnessing the horse in the first place.
For his part, the cabbie seemed unimpressed and told Buttons to go to hell, adding, as he looked askance at the few coins in his palm, that in the past he’d received a better tip from a nun who’d taken a vow of poverty.
Buttons was all for arguing the case, but Red dragged him away and reminded him why they were there.
“Sorry, Red, but he didn’t even have a checkrein on his horse,” Buttons said. “Depending on the horse, that can be a disaster.”
“We’re looking for two corrugated iron buildings with an alley between them,” Red said. “For now, that’s more important than a checkrein.”
“Nothing is more important than a checkrein,” Buttons said. “But I’m looking, I’m looking.”
Thanks to the directions given to Mr. Chang, they tracked down the corrugated iron warehouses, two vast buildings with a narrow, graveled alley running between them. The slave-auction barn was on about an acre of rubble-strewn, open ground about a hundred yards from the end of the alley. It was a windowless structure with double doors to the front and a sagging, shingled roof. There was no sign of life around the place, no tethered horses or wagons.
“It looks like it’s deserted,” Hannah said.
“Seems like,” Red said.
“Wild-goose chase, if you ask me,” Buttons said. “But nobody ever asks me.”
A huge, rusted iron steam boiler lay to their right, and Red suggested they take cover behind it while he scouted the place. “Hannah, do you have your revolver?” he said.
“In my pocket.”
Buttons opened his sailor’s coat and showed the Colt in his waistband.
“All right, shuck those guns, and if you see me fogging it with Brack Cooley on my heels, cut loose,” Red said.
“At who?” Buttons asked. Then, seeing the look on Red’s face, “Just a little stage-driver humor there.”
Hannah smiled and so did Mr. Chang.
“All right, let’s get it done,” Red said. “When I come back, one way or another, we’ll make our plan.”
“Red, I don’t want John to get hurt,” Hannah said.
“We won’t know if that’s possible till we get in there,” Red said.
“Hell, we don’t even know that he is in there,” Buttons said.
“Well, I aim to find out,” Red said.
“Red, be careful,” Hannah said.
Red nodded, left the cover of the boiler, and angled across open ground toward the back of the barn. The sun was higher in the sky, but the morning was not yet oppressively hot. The factories and workshops that ran twenty-four hours a day hammered and clanged in the background, and a steam whistle intermittently shrieked like a banshee. Red was sweating as he reached the rear of the building and then dropped to the ground, watching, listening, waiting. Nothing moved, and there was no sound from inside . . . or was there?
The barn had a single, padlocked door at the back that had sagged on its hinges and was slightly ajar on the top and one side. Red wasn’t certain, but thought he’d heard the drone of a man’s voice from somewhere inside the building. He drew his Colt, rose to his feet, and stepped closer to the door. There! Now he heard it plain, a man with a cold, clipped English accent talking angrily to someone. The voice didn’t sound like John Latimer’s, but Red was sure the man was inside, and with others. He touched his tongue to his dry top lip. The joker in the deck was Brack Cooley . . . was the gunman in the building? The answer to that was “probably” . . . but around a man like Cooley, uncertainty could get you killed.
On cat feet, moving slowly, Red made his way along the windowless side of the barn, thumb on the hammer of his up and ready Colt. In the distance he heard the steady pound of a steam hammer in one of the factories and closer, insects made their small sounds in the grass. He reached the corner, wiped sudden sweat off his forehead with the back of his gun hand, and then darted his head around for a quick look at the front of the building.
He took in what there was to see in an instant.
The barn had a double door and was open slightly, the padlock and chain dangling. Red ducked behind the corner again and stood with his back against the rough timber wall. Through those doors was the path inside . . . the way to rescue John Latimer from his captors.
It sounded easy, but it wasn’t. Red did a quick mental calculation.
Pull open the door . . . two seconds.
Run inside . . . a second, maybe two.
Assess the situation . . . two seconds.
Fire!
He would give Brack Cooley at least five seconds to respond to the intrusion. Five seconds when all the gunman needed to draw and shoot was a fraction of just one.
Red realized he was up against a stacked deck.
There had to be a better way.
And maybe there was . . . if Hannah Huckabee was once again willing to lay her life on the line.
* * *
“It’s a lot to ask, Hannah,” Red Ryan said, once more behind the cover of the steam boiler. “And I’m asking it.”
“Red, I say we go to the police, let them handle it from here,” Buttons Muldoon said.
“By the time the police got here, if they even came, John could be dead,” Hannah said. “Red thinks he’s in the barn with Cooley and the others. We just can’t take a chance on them shooting him out of hand.”
“Then you’ll do it, Hannah?” Red said.
“I don’t see that I’ve any choice.”
“There is a choice,” Buttons said, stubborn as ever. “Let the law handle it.”
“No. I want John Latimer out of there, and I want him out now . . . not later today or tomorrow or the next day, I mean now,” Hannah said.
“Miss Huckabee make up her mind, nothing can change it,” Mr. Chang said.
Buttons shook his head. “In all my life, I’ve never won an argument with a woman, and I’m losing this one. Red, what do you want me to do?”
Red told him, and Buttons said, “You know you and me are both dead, don’t you?”
“It can work, Buttons,” Red said. “Trust me on this.”
“Red, we’re talking about Brack Cooley here, remember? There ain’t anybody in the world faster with the iron than ol’ Brack, an’ that’s a natural fact.”
“I know it is, Buttons. Neither of us can match his speed on the draw and shoot, but together we just might.”
“And pigs will fly,” Buttons said.
“If Hannah plays her part, I can do it myself,” Red said.
“I won’t let you do that, Red,” Buttons said, “even if I miss my chance to stand at your grave and say, ‘Well, I told him so.’”
Red smiled. “You’re true blue, Buttons. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Buttons growled and muttered to himself, and Hannah said, “Let’s do it now before I lose what little courage I have left.”
“Remember, you’re lost, alone, trying to find your beloved, and crying bitter tears,” Red said. “Sob for all you’re worth, Hannah, like a widow woman at a funeral.”
“As a general rule, I don’t cry,” Hannah said.
“Just think of taking advice from Buttons Muldoon and the tears will come,” Red said.
* * *
Red Ryan retraced his steps to the rear of the barn, this time with Buttons in tow. They made their way to the corner of the wall and waited. Red drew his Colt, and Buttons did the same.
“How are you holding up, old fellow?” Red whispered.
“I want to sneeze. But since you ask, I’d rather be driving my coach.”
Red nodded. “I guess that goes for both of us.” He glared at Buttons. “For God’s sake don’t sneeze. It almost got us all killed in Austin.”
“You’re a man prone to exaggeration, Red,” Buttons said. “I just nearly got Miss Hannah killed.”