CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon were bound hand and foot and left alone in the mine shaft. The heat of the day had turned the place into a furnace. The dry air was thick as molasses and smelled of dust and rotting wood.
“Well, it’s about time,” Buttons said. “You plan to sleep your whole life away?”
Red stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. “Where am I?”
“In the mine shaft, all tied up.”
Red said, “I thought I was dead.”
“So did I, at least for a spell, but you sure as hell fooled me, huh?” Buttons said.
“I can’t move,” Red said, struggling a little.
“That’s because you’re trussed up like a turkey ready for the oven,” Buttons said.
Red lay quiet for a few moments then said, “The Rathmores gave me a beating, didn’t they? I feel like I was whipped with a bois d’arc fence post.”
“They damned near killed you, Red,” Buttons said. “Fact is, I’m surprised you’re still kicking.”
“How long have I been out?”
“A couple of days.”
“I can’t move to test for broken bones.”
“Well, don’t be too surprised if you got some.”
“What’s been happening?” Red asked.
“I’ll tell you later. Right now rest up some. You’re as weak as a two-day-old kitten.”
“I’m thirsty, Buttons.” Red said. “Wait, a minute. Hell, you’re all tied up, too.”
“Damn right I am. I bit Papa Mace’s leg and took a beating, kinda like you did.”
Red managed a ghost of a smile. “You bit him?” “Sure did. Hung onto his leg like a Louisiana alligator.”
“I would have loved to have seen that,” Red said.
“The fat man squealed and squealed, and they beat the hell out of me, but I still chomped down on him,” Buttons said.
Red managed a laugh. “Damn, that must’ve been a sight to see.” He tried to stretch, but his bonds hampered him. “Buttons, I’m thirsty. Do we have any water?”
“No, I don’t see any.” Buttons maneuvered his body until he lay on his back, then took a deep breath and shouted, “Hey, you damned heathens. A man in here needs water!”
There was no answer.
Buttons tried again with the same result.
Red said, “Maybe they’ve forgotten about us.”
“I doubt it,” Buttons said. “I’m sure they’ll bring us food and water presently. Can you hold out that long?”
“Food, I don’t need. I can wait for water, even though I’m thirsty enough to spit cotton. Buttons, what the hell have they got planned for us?”
“Pardner, you don’t want to know,” Buttons said. “It ain’t good.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
“I won’t.”
“Where is the gambler feller?”
“Broussard? He escaped.”
“Maybe he’ll come back and rescue us.”
“That’s a good notion, Red. Keep thinking that way.” Buttons yelled again. “We need water in here, you damned savages!”
“I wonder if Luna Talbot made it back to her ranch.”
“I’m sure she did,” Buttons said, though he was sure she had not.
“Right pretty lady, with plenty of sand.” Red’s voice was weak and the shadows under his eyes were as black as soot. “Damn, Buttons, these ropes hurt.”
“You take it easy, pardner,” Buttons said. “Just try to relax.”
Red’s fevered mind wandered, and he said, “Buttons, you recollect that time in Dallas when I climbed out of that lady’s bedroom window . . . what was her name?”
“If it’s the one I’m thinking about, her name was Lizzie. Mrs. Lizzie Schumacher. Her husband was a sea captain as I recall.”
“Remember, I climbed onto the roof with my boots and clothes under my arm and it was winter. All those chimney pots were red-hot, every one of them smoking like a saloon stove with the flue closed?”
“Burned your bare butt, I recall,” Buttons said. “Both cheeks, if memory serves me right.”
“Yeah, I did, and for a week it hurt like hell to sit.”
“You got a bad burn,” Buttons said. “As I recollect, I had to slow down the stage over the rough patches, no bouncing with you up on the seat with a cushion under your ass.”
Red smiled and said, “Do you remember her husband stood in the front yard and took pots at me with a brace of Remingtons and cussed enough that he singed all the grass within ten yards from where he stood?”
“I remember. You were lucky that day,” Buttons said. “If the captain’s old lady hadn’t stood naked in the window, singing ‘Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies,’ and beckoned for him to join her, he would’ve plugged you fer sure.”
“She was a pretty lady,” Red whispered. “What was her name again?”
“Lizzie . . . Lizzie Schumacher.”
“Yes, I remember . . . Lizzie . . . Lizzie . . .” Red lapsed once again into unconsciousness.
Buttons said, “Best you sleep, Red.” Then fully aware of what was ahead for both of them, “Best you sleep and never wake.”
“Water!” A male voice bellowed from the mine entrance. “Does somebody want water?”
“Yes, in here, you damned brigand,” Buttons yelled.
A few moments passed, and Mace Rathmore limped inside, a fat bandage on his bitten leg. He held an earthen crock, condensation beading on its sides. “Who’s thirsty? I got cool water here.” His smile was unpleasant, sadistic, bordering on the deranged grimace of the criminally insane.
“Over here,” Buttons said. “Damn your eyes.”
“Certainly.” Papa Mace took a waddling step forward, pretended to trip, and upended the pot, spilling its contents onto the ground. Looking down at the puddle at his feet, he said, “Oh, dear. I tipped out all that nice, cool water, fresh from the spring.”
“You damned animal,” Buttons said between gritted teeth. “One day, I’ll kill you.”
“You’ve said that before. I’m still here and you’re the one that’s all tied up . . . and I must say, dying very slowly.” Rathmore smiled again. “Ah well, never mind. I’ll bring you more water, but not today. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. We’ll see.” He fixed his eyes on Red. “My, my, is he dead already?”
“Not yet, you sorry piece of trash,” Buttons said.
“Looks like he will be soon.” Rathmore grinned. “Until tomorrow, then. Or the next day.”
Buttons watched the fat man go . . . and all of a sudden, he became aware of his raging thirst.
* * *
Maybe she’d been expecting too much too soon. Clementine Rathmore was sure the gambler had escaped, but when would he come back and rescue her from this place? Next week, next month . . . never?
She’d no answer to that question, but she still had an iron in the fire, the Patterson stagecoach driver and his shotgun guard. As far as she knew the guard was dying, if he wasn’t dead already, but the driver was still alive. Could he be the one to bring her the freedom she craved? The word around camp was that because of the wood shortage Papa Mace wanted the prisoners to die of thirst. That was a lingering death, but with her help the strong, stocky driver could yet be healthy enough to make his break. It was a long shot, she knew, but it was worth trying.
Using a sponge she’d bought in Forlorn Hope years before, she stripped naked and began to wash herself all over, getting rid of the sweat stink her husband had left on her. At sundown, Asher was due to go on guard duty at the mouth of the arroyo and would be there until midnight. As soon as darkness came, she’d make her move.
The newspaperman A. B. Boyd always claimed that, on what would be the last day of her life, Clementine Rathmore was certifiably insane. He based his opinion on interviews he conducted in 1935 with two of the surviving Rathmore women who both stated that Clementine was “tetched in the head” and that they both feared for the safety of her children. Admittedly, the women still believed that Papa Mace was some kind of demigod and their evidence may have been biased, but the fact remains that Clementine’s plan had no hope of succeeding. It could well have been the demented act of a crazy woman.