CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As the grandfather clock in the lobby chimed midnight, Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon were the only patrons of the La Scala Hotel’s bar. A bored mixologist polished a glass and looked forward to the one o’clock closing time, and over by the piano an equally bored saloon girl used a forefinger to pick out the melody of a Chopin nocturne.
Buttons had opened his mouth several times to say something and then shut it again. Finally, Red said, “Out with it, Buttons. What’s on your mind?”
Muldoon raised his whiskey to his lips, decided against it, and laid the glass back on the table. “All right then, here’s what I think . . . the major was murdered because Stella Morgan wanted to be a rich widow. Either Roper or Carter did the killing and used an Apache knife so the scout would be blamed. Red, you made a lot of noise about Nascha not being the murderer, and that made you a danger to Stella’s plans and a marked man. Somebody then paid Sam Glover to kill you, tried to do it on the cheap, and hired a greenhorn who spent his life seeing double and couldn’t shoot worth a damn. Are you with me so far?”
“I’m listening,” Red said.
“Good, because here’s where I sum it all up . . . none of this Stella Morgan stuff is any business of ours. I say we hitch up the team, take the stage back to Fort Concho, and then let the Rangers handle it.”
“And in the meantime, the Apache hangs and Stella takes the train to Washington and enters high society, well away from Texas Ranger jurisdiction. Of course, Roper and Carter go with her as strong-arm bodyguards and provide the muscle for her further criminal ventures. After all, if you’re a beautiful woman who can murder an army officer husband and get away with it, you might believe that you can bump off another wealthy husband and become richer still. So, how does that set with you?”
“Like I said, that’s all well and good, but it’s still got nothing to do with us. Red, you’re a shotgun messenger, I’m a driver, so let’s get back to what we know best. As far as I’m concerned, we shake the dust of El Paso off our boots and never come back. Red, we can pick up passengers along the way for points east as far as New Orleans. Hell, ol’ Abe Patterson will be so pleased, he’ll give us a bonus.”
Suddenly, Red Ryan’s face creased in thought. Then he said, “New Orleans . . . Buttons . . . hell . . . yeah . . . that’s it!”
Buttons grinned. “Red, I’m as happy as a pig in a peach orchard that I’ve talked some sense into you at last.”
“No, it’s not about picking up passengers, it’s about Lucian Carter.”
“Huh?”
“Lucian Carter. I just remembered what I heard one time. Listen, do you recollect the name Elijah Carter? The newspapers called him Old Man Carter or Killer Carter on account of how he ran a murder-for-hire business out of New Orleans.”
Button’s puzzled face told Red that his driver had drawn a blank.
“Well, he did, and over the course of twenty years he signed up some of the fastest guns in the business to make the kills,” Ryan said. “Yeah, it’s all coming back to me now. At Carter’s trial, the prosecutor said that Bill Longley did a job for Carter, so did Cullen Baker and Dallas Stoudenmire and a dozen other named gunfighters, but none of that could be proved, and the gunslingers never stood trial. But Elijah Carter was found guilty of contracting out seven murders for hire by person or persons unknown, though the real number was at least twenty times that.”
“So, what happened to him?”
“They hung him. But here’s the thing . . . Elijah Carter had two sons, both of them stone-cold killers who did a lot of their Pa’s dirty work, but, like the other gunmen, there was not enough evidence to convict them. The older brother was soon shot dead by a deputy sheriff in Abilene, but the other disappeared. I think the missing son is Lucian Carter, and Stella Morgan hired him in San Antonio around the time Major Morgan’s mother died.”
“And left him all her money,” Buttons said. “You think Carter murdered the old lady?”
“That seems logical to me,” Red said. “You saw Lucian Carter shoot. He’s no bank clerk, lay to that.”
Buttons stifled a yawn, and the saloon girl left the piano and walked past Red, her hips swaying, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she kept on walking to the bar and ordered a rum punch.
“Red, who told you all that stuff about the Carters?” Buttons said. “Maybe somebody was spinning you a big windy.”
“Do you mind I told you that a few years back I rode shotgun for the Dexter Brothers Mining Company up the Montana Territory way?” Red said. “Well, us shotgun guards and some muleskinners got snowed in for three weeks in the winter of 1880 and all we had to do was talk. One of the guards was out of New Orleans, a nice Cajun feller by the name of Alan Belanger, and one day we got to talking about gunslingers and sich, and he told me about old Elijah Carter and them. Now Belanger was a religious feller, much given to saying his prayers and all, so he wasn’t the kind to tell a big windy.” Ryan shook his head. “He got killed by holdup men the following spring, and I took that hard when I heard it.”
Buttons sat in silence for a while, drained his glass, and replaced it on the table. “Well, it’s me for my bed,” he said. Then, standing, “Red, the story about the Elijah Carter feller changes nothing. What Stella Morgan does or doesn’t do is still none of our business.”
“Maybe you’re right, and that’s the case. I don’t know,” Red said.
“We’re well out of it,” Buttons said.
“They did try to kill me,” Red said. “I’d say that makes it kinda personal.”
“And who is they?”
“Stella Morgan, Seth Roper, and Lucian Carter, that’s who they are.”
Buttons shook his head. “Sleep on it, Red. Maybe you’ll see things in a different light come morning.”
“Buttons, it’s all about righting a wrong, isn’t it?” Ryan said.
“Yeah, Red, I’m right, you’re wrong. Now, goodnight to ye.”
* * *
After Buttons left, Red Ryan stepped to the bar and said to the girl, “Can I buy you a drink?”
She smiled, showing crooked teeth. “Yes, I’d like a bottle of champagne.”
“Bartender, a rum punch for the lady and a whiskey for me,” Red said.
“Cheapskate,” the girl said. “If you were ugly I’d walk right on out of here.”
“If you were ugly, so would I,” Red said.
“And ugly or not, you’re both out of here at one o’clock,” the bartender said.