CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“Brannigan has sand, and he’s good with a gun,” Red Ryan said. “We could’ve used him on this trip.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Buttons Muldoon looked toward the cot where Archibald Monday lay snoring, his head and the rest of him covered in a blanket. “How long has the little feller been like that?”
“For the past couple of hours.” Red said. “Let him sleep. It keeps him quiet. He’s got one of them Bulldog revolvers in there with him as a sneaky gun.”
“Then how come he didn’t draw it at the station when the shooting started?” Buttons said.
“Maybe Brannigan told him not to get involved in a gunfight, but it’s more likely he was too scared to move. Hell, he stood so close to Abe Patterson, I thought he was trying to crawl inside his skin.”
“And talking about Abe, he’s coming in,” Ira Cole said from his guard post at the window. “Got that Sophie gal and his son with him.”
The depot clock chimed ten and the street outside was in darkness. A horse whinnied in the corral out back and knocked over a metal feed bucket.
Abe Patterson stepped inside, bringing with him the tinny gust of a saloon piano. Sophie, a brown-skinned, statuesque woman, hung on his arm and Cuthbert, as was his practice, walked a step behind.
“Good evening, fellers.” Patterson motioned to his son, who laid a bottle of Old Crow and a handful of cigars on the table. “This is my way of thanking you for the fine work you put in this afternoon.” He looked around. “Where is Monday?”
Red jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there, asleep.”
“Worn out from nerves, I’d say,” Patterson said. “Poor little runt.”
“Pa, I wish I’d been there today,” Cuthbert said. “I’d have told the others to stand aside and let me get my work in. I’d have shown them city slickers a thing or two about gun handling.”
“I’m sure you would have, Cuthbert,” Abe said.
“Damn right,” Cuthbert said.
Buttons, as mischievous as always, said, “You could ride with us to Fort Concho, Cuthbert. Maybe you’ll get your chance to get into a shooting scrape.”
The pudgy young man didn’t miss a beat. “I’d admire to, Mr. Muldoon, but I’ve got a sore back and stagecoach travel is not for me.”
Sophie looked at Buttons, smiled, and winked, surprising the hell out of him.
Abe didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Cuthbert is plagued by sore backs.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, let us make a trial of the whiskey and cigars.”
“Where is Daphne Loveshade?” Red asked.
“Back at the hotel getting ready for her first train ride,” Abe said. “She’s very excited.”
After some drinking and smoking, Abe Patterson said, “I have a fine team for you, Buttons . . . and Red . . . and a couple of boxes of shells made by the U.S. Cartridge Company. Crackerjack shells, Red. Top notch.”
“I’m obliged, Mr. Patterson. Let’s hope I don’t have to use them.”
“Indeed. That’s what we all want,” Patterson said.
“I’ll say a prayer to Saint Peter Claver for you, Red,” Sophie said. “And you too, Buttons.”
Buttons said from behind a cloud of exhaled smoke, “Who is he?”
“Peter Claver is the patron saint of slaves,” Sophie said. “My parents were slaves, and St. Peter answered many of their prayers.”
Buttons nodded. “Well, it sure can’t hurt, so pray away, Miss Sophie. In the meantime, we’ll put our trust in the U.S. Cartridge Company.”
“Sophie is always praying to somebody,” Abe Patterson said. He smiled benignly at his mistress. “Saint Peter Claver keeps me on the straight and narrow.’ He turned his attention to Buttons again. “You and Red will leave with Mr. Monday tomorrow morning before sunup. Keep it quiet, Buttons. No showboating. The least number of people who see or hear your departure, the better.”
“They won’t even know we’re gone.” Buttons said.
“Excellent. The good name of the Patterson stage company depends on you, Buttons,” Patterson said. “And it’s a heavy responsibility . . . a burdensome responsibility.”
Buttons smiled. “Marshal Brannigan says the whole damn country is depending on me and Red to get Monday to Fort Concho.”
“Ah, yes, that is true,” Abe said. “But the needs of the Patterson Stage and Express Company must always come first. Please remember that.”
* * *
The Patterson stage was alone on a sea of grass under a blue sky dominated by the burning sun.
Apart from the big, strong wheelers, the team that Buttons Muldoon had in hand was young and inexperienced, and he sweated heavily as he managed the reins. “Answer me a question, Red.”
“Fire away,” Red Ryan said.
“What are our chances of reaching Fort Concho alive?”
“Pretty good.” Red was silent for a while and then added, “That is, if we don’t run afoul of Apaches, big-city gunmen, and plain old Texas road agents.”
“Damn it all, Red, couldn’t you have said ‘Pretty good’ and let it go at that?”
Red grinned. “All right, then. Pretty good. There, I’ve said it.”
“Yeah. But you don’t mean it,” Buttons said.
“Sure, I mean it. I wouldn’t say ‘pretty good’ if I didn’t mean it.”
At that moment Archibald Monday stuck his head out the window and yelled up at the box, “What are our chances, Mr. Muldoon? I didn’t hear Mr. Ryan’s answer.”
“Pretty good,” Buttons and Red yelled back in unison.