CHAPTER EIGHT
The Patterson stage was fifteen miles north of the Rio Bravo, following the southwest course of the Arroyo Diablo, when Buttons drew Red’s attention to the dust cloud ahead of them.
“We’re getting close to the Talbot ranch,” Red said. “Could be cattle.”
Buttons nodded. “Yeah, it could be, but keep the Greener close.” He studied the land around him, a desert wilderness of rolling hills that supported wild oak mottes, scrub brush, cactus, and patches of prairie grass. “No sign of the Leighton gal, so we’re on our own.”
“I wonder if she caught that feller she was chasing.”
“I bet she did, and I reckon by this time he’s as dead as mutton in a stew,” Buttons said.
“She saved our lives. Thinking back on it, I could have gunned one of those road agents, maybe the two of them, but—”
“Red, we were both dead men from the git-go,” Buttons interrupted. “Sure, we could have rolled the dice and made a play, but them boys had us in their sights.” He looked up at the blue arch of the sky. “Yup, the gal saved our bacon and there’s no buts or maybes about the thing.”
“She could shoot, couldn’t she?”
“And ride like a Comanche.”
“Quite a woman, Red said.”
“I reckon it would take quite a man to tame her,” Buttons said.
Red smiled, shaking his head. “You’ll find no takers in this direction.”
“Too big a job for you, huh?”
“A dangerous job, I’d say. Would you like to argue with her about who dries the dishes?”
“Not me,” Buttons said. “I value my skin too much.” He looked ahead of him. “One, two, three . . . it looks to me like we’re about to meet another . . . I’d say five wildcats.”
“This has been a mighty strange trip.”
“And getting stranger. Like a sidesaddle on a sow.”
Ahead of the stage five riders had drawn rein, waiting. The women wore split riding skirts, boots, shirts, and wide-brimmed hats. Two carried sawn-off shotguns, the other three held Winchesters. All of them wore belt revolvers.
Buttons, ever the gallant cavalier, drove within five yards of the women, halted the team, and then stood in the box. He swept off his hat, bowed, then straightened. Smiling his most winning smile, he said, “I sure didn’t expect to meet so many lovely prairie roses in this neck of the woods. Did you, Mr. Ryan?”
Red shook his head. “No, I sure didn’t. As a representative of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, I can only say that in all my travels I’ve never seen the like.”
That was a small lie.
Three of the younger ladies were indeed pretty, but the faces of the two oldest showed the ravages of time and hard living. Red had seen features like that before, mostly on prairie women worn out from years of backbreaking work and childbearing. But these women had not been farmers’ wives. They looked like whores who had graduated from saloons and dance halls and ended up in hog ranches when they lost their looks. After the hog ranch, a fallen woman could fall no further. But someone had redeemed these women, cared for them, and given them a purpose in life. What that purpose might be, he had no idea . . . but he would find out soon enough.
The oldest woman, tall, thin with a lined face but no gray in her auburn hair, looked hard at Red. “So, you like what you see, huh, shotgun man?”
Red nodded and smiled, putting on his best bib and tucker. “Most assuredly, dear lady,” he said. “As my colleague says, prairie roses, each and every one of you.”
“Don’t get any ideas, big boy. When you arrive at the Talbot ranch, see you keep it in your pants,” the woman said. “And that also applies to you, Sailor.”
“Ma’am, I’m not a sailor, though I wear a sailor’s coat,” Buttons said. “My name is Patrick Muldoon. You can call me Buttons. Most folks do.”
“I’m not most folks,” the woman said. She carried a Winchester, held upright on her right thigh and carried a bone-handled Colt high on her waist, horseman style. “Follow us. We’ll reach the ranch in an hour, and supper will be ready.” Her eyes moved to the coffin. “Is the stiff in there?”
“As far as we know,” Buttons said. “We didn’t look real recent. In fact, we didn’t look at all.”
“Did you bring the right one?” the woman said. “His name is, or was—”
“Morgan Ford,” Red said.
“Huzzah for the shotgun man,” the woman said. “He ain’t as dumb as he looks.”
“Ford was Luna Talbot’s uncle.” Red said, taking no offense.
“Yeah, he was something like that,” the woman said. Then, after a pause, “My name is Corrine Walker. I’m one of Miss Talbot’s hands.”
“Right pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Walker,” Buttons said. “Ain’t we, Red?”
“Overjoyed, I’d say.”
“Yeah, you look it,” Corrine said. “Now, sailor man, gee-up those nags and follow us.”
* * *
Corrine Walker rode point while the others split into pairs and flanked the stage. Red tried smiling at them, especially the pretty ones, but they didn’t smile back. In fact they ignored him, their whole attention fixed on the trail in front of and behind them.
“Right personable gals,” Buttons said.
“And that’s your idea of a good joke, right?”
“Yeah, it’s a joke, but I’m wondering about something that’s got me buffaloed,” Buttons said.
Red looked at him. “Let me hear it.”
“What the hell have we gotten ourselves into? That’s what I’ve been wondering on.”
“And it’s got you buffaloed, right?”
“Damn right.”
“Buttons, I don’t know what we’ve gotten into, but I got a feeling that it isn’t going to end well.”
Buttons turned his shocked face to Red. “You really feel that? I mean, deep down inside feel that?”
“I sure do. And it’s mighty troublesome.”