CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Big Jim Black rode a .45 bullet into hell. It was a beautiful shot, right in the middle of the forehead, and the man who pulled the trigger . . . was Seth Roper.
Red Ryan took in the situation at a glance, as did the gawking, unbelieving crowd.
Roper holstered his gun and said, “I won’t see any man shot in the back.”
It was bald-faced lie.
Killing Black had been on Roper’s mind for awhile, his ace in the hole. If things didn’t work out as planned with the widow Morgan, he’d take Black’s place as the premier gunman in El Paso with all the financial and social gains that implied. As an alternative scheme, it was strictly second best, but Roper had figured all the angles and it would do for now.
Red Ryan was stunned and puzzled. He buckled on his gun and then stepped to Roper. “Why?” he asked.
“You heard what I said, Ryan.”
“Not allowing a man to be shot in the back wasn’t the reason,” Red said.
Roper shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
“You saved my life,” Red said.
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
“I’m beholden to you.”
“Don’t let it prey on your mind, Ryan. I would’ve done it for anybody.”
“But not for me, unless you thought you had something to gain.”
Roper smiled. “Like I said, believe whatever the hell you want. Now bury your Indian. Killing a man before breakfast makes me hungry, and steak and eggs are calling me.”
Roper turned away and flung over his shoulder, “I did you a favor, Ryan.”
“I know you did,” Red said.
“I’ll call it in one day,” Roper said.
He walked away, and the crowd, abuzz with excitement, followed him, eager for breakfast in the same restaurant as the town’s new premier gunslinger. The Apache was forgotten.
* * *
“In the end, they didn’t care where the hell we buried the Indian,” Buttons said.
“Seems like,” Red said.
Buttons shook his head. “There’s just no telling about folks.”
“They have a new hero. Now Seth Roper is the biggest, baddest man in El Paso.”
“You spoke to him, why did he save your life?”
“You heard him, he didn’t want to see me shot in the back.”
“Hell, Red, he hates your guts. You tried to get him hung, remember.”
“I know. The whole sorry business has me buffaloed,” Red said.
Thaddeus Wraith called out, “Mr. Ryan, Mr. Muldoon, you wish to say a word before we place earth on the dear departed?”
Red, light-headed and hurting all over, and Buttons stepped to the graveside, and Red said, “Anybody know an Apache prayer?”
“Do Apaches pray?” Wraith said.
“I don’t know,” Red said.
“We really should say something,” Wraith said. “I mean, it’s the Christian thing to do.”
“He’s not a Christian,” Red said. “But you’re right. We should say something.” He took off his derby and said, “Well, by all accounts this Apache was a brave man, and he’s got a medal on his chest to prove it. May he ride forever in the happy hunting grounds. Amen.”
“Amen,” Buttons said.
“Very nice,” Wraith said. “Amen.”