CHAPTER TWO

The Reverend Solomon Palmer led Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon to a cabin behind a tumbledown rod and gun store that still bore a weathered sign above its door. The thunderstorm had passed but had left a steady rain in its wake, and when Red and Buttons stepped inside, their slickers streamed water onto the dirt floor.

Palmer lit a smoking oil lamp, and a mustard-yellow glow filled the cabin. Red noticed that a well-used Winchester stood in a gun rack, and hanging beside it, a holstered Colt exhibited even more wear. He decided right there and then that there was more to the Reverend Palmer than met the eye. The man might be a parson now, but that hadn’t always been the case . . . unless the firearms belonged to someone else.

A log fire burned in a stone fireplace flanked by two rockers. A small dining table with a pair of wooden chairs completed the furnishings. Above the mantel hung a portrait of a stern-looking man in the uniform of a Confederate brigadier general. The old soldier had bushy gray eyebrows and a beard that spread over his chest, and he bore a passing resemblance to Palmer. The cabin had an adjoining room, but the door was closed. The place smelled of pipe smoke and vaguely of blended bourbon but had no odor of sanctity that Red associated with the quarters of the clergy.

“Help yourself to coffee,” Palmer said, nodding to the pot on the fire. “Cups on the shelf.” The man removed his top hat, revealing thinning black hair. He set the hat down on the table. “Are you sharp set?”

“We could eat,” Buttons said, a man who could always eat.

“Soup in the pot, bowls on the shelf, spoons on the table,” Palmer said. “Eat and drink and then we’ll talk about Morgan Ford.”

The coffee was hot, black, and bitter, but Red found the soup surprisingly good. “Good soup,” he said after he’d finished his bowl.

“I spent some time as a trail cook for old Charlie Goodnight,” Palmer said. “I learned how to make bacon and beans and beef soup, because it was one of Charlie’s favorites.”

A cook could acquire a Colt and a Winchester, but Red figured he’d never use them the way Palmer’s had been used. He still put a question mark against the reverend’s name.

Buttons burped more or less politely and then said, “Tell us about the dead man in the box.”

“Brother Morgan Ford came to Cottondale ten years ago, hoping to outrun a reputation as a gunman, and in that quest, he succeeded,” Palmer said. “He built the saloon, but when the town died, Morgan took sick and died with it. Him and me, we were the only two left. I remained to take care of him in his last weeks, as was my Christian duty.”

“How come the town died?” Red said. “Looks like it was a nice enough place with a church an’ all.”

“At one time it was,” Palmer said. “But then the farmers who wanted to grow cotton here discovered that the cost of irrigating the land ate up any profits. One by one, defeated by the desert, they pulled stakes and left until only Morgan and me remained. Three days ago the heart trouble finally took him and he gasped his last.”

“And lost me a fare,” Buttons said.

“You still have a fare, Mr. Muldoon,” Palmer said. “When Morgan lay dying he told me to contact his only living relative, a niece by the name of Luna Talbot, and ask her if she would bury him. Needless to say, I was surprised that Brother Ford had a niece, but using El Paso as my mailing address, since mail is no longer delivered to Cottondale, I wrote to her and she replied and said yes. She wants his body and will pay to have it sent to her. Apparently, Mrs. Talbot has a successful ranch due south of us on this side of the Rio Bravo. In every way, she seems to be an admirable young lady.”

“And you want us to take the body to her? Is that it, Reverend?” Buttons said.

“Yes, I do. That is why you’re here. I contacted the Abe Patterson company in San Angelo and made all the arrangements.”

Buttons shook his head. “Nobody made arrangements with me that involved picking up a dead man. The Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company doesn’t carry corpses, and if it ain’t there already, I plan to write that down in the rule book.”

“Five hundred dollars, Mr. Muldoon,” Palmer said.

“Huh?” Buttons said.

“Five hundred dollars, Mr. Muldoon.” A heavy cloudburst rattled on the cabin’s tin roof, adding to the reverend’s suspenseful pause. “That is the amount of money the grieving Mrs. Luna Talbot is willing to pay for the safe delivery of her loved one.”

“I reckon that from here it’s around two hundred miles to the ranch you’re talking about,” Buttons said. “That’s a fifty-dollar fare.”

“And indeed, you are correct, Mr. Muldoon. The Patterson stage company gets fifty and you keep the rest.” The reverend smiled slightly. “Because of the unique nature of the . . . ah . . . delivery, Mrs. Talbot is prepared to be generous.”

“Red, what do you reckon?” Buttons said.

Before Red could answer, Palmer said, “I have a sufficient length of good hemp rope to lash the coffin to the top of the stage. We can make it secure so that Brother Morgan can take his final journey in peace.”

“Without falling off, you mean?” Red asked.

“Precisely,” Palmer said.

Buttons and Red exchanged a glance, and finally Buttons nodded. “Get the rope, Reverend.”