Bullet for a Stranger

Book 3: Red Ryan Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Red Ryan is one of the fastest guns in the West. But this time, he’s in for the longest, hardest ride of his life. Where danger lurks around every turn—and all roads lead to hell . . .



700 MILES OF MAYHEM



Gold. Silver. Cold hard cash. Stagecoach guard Red Ryan and his driver Buttons Muldoon have ridden shotgun on some pretty valuable cargo in their day. But they're about to learn—the hard way—that the most dangerous cargo of all is human. They've been hired to escort a cowardly traitor facing an army court martial in New Orleans. Every hired killer in Texas wants him dead, including gun-handy Hannah Huckabee, a woman with a mysterious past and an agenda of her own. But she's just one of the dangers they'll face along the way. There are cutthroat gangs bent on slaughtering anything on two legs. And 700 miles of the deadliest terrain Red Ryan has ever had to shoot his way out of . . .

Release date: August 25, 2020

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

“So, tell me,” Patrick “Buttons” Muldoon said, “when we reach Fort Concho, what do you calculate the Limey coward will look like?”

Shotgun guard Red Ryan’s gaze was fixed on the vast sweep of the Texas prairie ahead of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company coach. Without turning to look at Buttons, he said, “I have no idea. But I guess he’ll look like anybody else.”

Buttons had slowed the six-horse team to a walk, and the only sound was the steady fall of the horses’ hooves and the jingle of harness. The sky was bright blue, with no clouds, but the wind blowing from the north held an edge, a harbinger of the coming fall.

Buttons spat over the side of the stage, the ribbons steady in his gloved hands, and said, “I mean, will he be scared of his own shadow? One of them rannies who wear white drawers because they’ll never know when they’ll need a white flag?”

“You mean is he kissin’ kin to Moses Rose?” Red said.

Buttons grinned, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Then I don’t know,” Red said.

Buttons seemed disappointed. “Hell, Red, you don’t know nothing.”

“I don’t know the answer to a conundrum that don’t make any sense,” Red said. “How do I know what the hell the coward will be like?”

“Yeah, well, we’re taking him all the way to New Orleans, so I guess we’ll find out, huh?” Buttons said. “Hell, we might find out the hard way. Maybe he’ll try to stab us in the back.”

“Sure, and maybe along the trail he’ll haul off and do something cowardly,” Red said.

“Man, that’s something I’d surely like to see,” Buttons said. “I ain’t never seen a coward do coward stuff, especially a Limey coward.”

Red nodded. “Me neither. Now, quit talking for a minute and study on what that there blue thing is ahead of us.”

“What blue thing? Oh, wait, I see it.” Buttons was silent for a few moments, peering into the distance. Then he said, “It’s blue and white, but I can’t make it out. A tent, maybe?”

“Maybe. Whip up the horses,” Red Ryan said. “Let’s go find out.”

“Keep the Greener handy,” Buttons said. “It may be some road agent trick that we ain’t seen yet.”

“I reckon we’ve seen them all,” Red said. “But you never know.”

Buttons snapped his whip above the team, and the horses lurched into a fast trot. “You’ve got younger eyes than me, Red, he said. “Can you make out what it is yet?”

“Not yet. But I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

A large circle of blue and white striped canvas, much torn, spread across the prairie grass. Beside it were piled several leather trunks. A man and woman stood beside a battered wicker basket large enough to accommodate two people, and as Buttons Muldoon drove the stage nearer, the woman raised a hand and waved.

“Hell, Red, it’s a gal and a Chinee with her,” Buttons said. “In all my born days I ain’t never seen the like.”

“And she’s a right pretty gal at that,” Red said. His tanned cheeks bore a three-day growth of rusty beard and he wished he’d shaved.

Buttons reined the team to a jangling halt and then raised his hat. “Well, howdy, young lady,” he said. “We weren’t expecting to meet company on this run. Nothing as far as the eye can see but grass, and even more grass.”

Red smiled, showing his teeth. “He’s Buttons Muldoon, and my name is Red Ryan. We’re representatives of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company, and we’re at your service.”

The girl nodded. “Of course, you are. I’m Hannah Huckabee, and by profession I’m an adventuress. My companion is Mr. Chang.” Then, as though she thought an explanation necessary, “I saved his life from a street gang in Shanghai and he followed me home.” She had a very pleasing English accent.

Hannah Huckabee, who looked to be in her late twenties, was a tall, slender woman with well-defined breasts and a narrow waist. She wore a tan-colored dress with plenty of flapped pockets that was short enough to reveal lace-up brown leather boots that were scuffed from hard use. A cascade of glossy black hair fell from under a pith helmet that sported a pair of dark-lensed goggles above the brim. Belted around her waist was a blue, short-barreled Colt with an ivory handle and on the opposite side a sheathed bowie knife of the largest size. A pair of expensive brass field glasses, probably of German manufacture, hung around her neck. Her eyes were a lustrous brown, the black lashes thick and long. When she smiled, as she was doing now, her teeth were very white . . . and Red Ryan thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.

Buttons Muldoon, ever a gentleman when he was around the ladies, said, “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but what are you and the Chinee gent doing all the way out here in the wilderness?”

“Right now nothing, except being lost,” Hannah said. She smiled her dazzling smile. “And, of course, I’m also talking to you, driving man.”

“He means how did you get here?” Red said.

The girl pointed to the tattered canvas on the prairie grass. “Hanging from that in a basket is how we got here.” Then, reading the question on Red’s face. “What you see here are the remains of a hot-air balloon. It was my intention to explore the Caprock Canyons for signs of the culture that existed there ten thousand years ago. I mean pottery, spear points, and the like. You know, the usual archaeological stuff. Mr. Chang and I were also getting in some long-distance practice for our coming around-the-world balloon trip.”

“Oh, I see,” Buttons said, trying to look wise, but he didn’t see at all.

Neither did Red.

“The Caprock Canyons are in the Panhandle country,” he said. “How come you ended up here?”

Hannah Huckabee shrugged her slim shoulders. “We left the New Mexico Territory three days ago and then got hit by a most singular thunderstorm with a strong north wind and were blown off course. The balloon was ripped up, and Mr. Chang and I came down here. We landed pretty hard and were lucky to escape with only a few cuts and bruises. We could’ve been killed.”

Mr. Chang bowed, then smiled and said, “We very lucky. Miss Huckabee very lucky lady. She prove that time and time again.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it. Nice to meet you, Miss Huckabee,” Buttons said. He touched his hat brim and gathered the ribbons in his hands. “Now we got to be on our way, a schedule to keep and all that.”

“Wait, where are you headed?” Hannah said.

“East, to Fort Concho, ma’am. Got a coward to pick up from the army,” Buttons said.

“A coward?” Hannah said.

“Yeah, an Englishman.”

“And where are you taking him, this coward?”

“To the great city of New Orleans, ma’am, where we’re meeting up with a British warship that will take him back to London town to face justice for his cowardly deeds.”

“I declare, it must be an important kind of coward that merits his own warship,” Hannah said.

“I don’t know about that, ma’am, since I never picked up a coward afore,” Buttons said. Then, “But yeah, I guess he’s important enough.”

“And he has this Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company coach reserved just for him,” Red said. “Takes a mighty big auger to merit that kind of attention.”

“Mr. Ryan—”

“Call me Red.”

“Red, Mr. Chang and I have had nothing to eat or drink for three days,” Hannah said. “Do you have any food to spare? We’ll be grateful for a few crumbs.”

“Buttons?” Red said. “What do you say? Can we spare some grub?”

“Ma’am, it’s against company regulations, but I guess we could spare some cold bacon, sourdough bread, and water,” Buttons said. “It ain’t much, but you’re welcome to make a trial of it.”

“Right now, any food would be most welcome,” the woman said. “I can pay you in American money for what we eat.”

“No payment needed,” Red said. “It’s the official policy of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company to feed the hungry and clothe the poor and needy.”

“I’ll get the grub,” Buttons said. He gave Red a sidelong look. “I never heard of that official policy.”

“Neither have I,” Red said. “But I’m willing to bet that ol’ Abe Patterson has it wrote down in the rules somewhere.”

Ignoring Buttons’s reminder that they were burning daylight, Red spread a blanket on the grass and laid out a meager lunch, including a wedge of seedcake that his plump driver had seen fit not to mention.

Hannah and Mr. Chang ate with an appetite that only three days of fasting can create, and to his chagrin Buttons watched the devouring of the bacon and bread and then the seedcake vanish to the last yellow crumb.

“Ah, that was quite sufficient to restore me to good health,” the woman said, dabbing her lips with a scrap of handkerchief. “Once my balloon is replaced, Mr. Chang and I are off on our greatest adventure, but perhaps you will allow me to treat you gentlemen to dinner before we leave.”

“Suits me just fine,” Red said. “And then you’ll head back to the Caprock Canyons, huh?” Red said.

“Oh, dear no,” Hannah said. “That was to be just a side trip for the experience. I have something much more interesting in mind.”

“Miss Huckabee have only interesting adventures,” Mr. Chang said. Then, smiling at Red, “That is her official policy.”

“And what might that adventure be?” Buttons said. He looked sour, the sad fate of his seedcake nagging at him.

“Mr. Muldoon, I’ve already told you. It’s our balloon flight around the world,” Hannah said. “I’m sure you’ve read the book, Le tour de Monde en Quatre-Vingts Jours, by Mr. Jules Verne.”

Buttons shook his head. “Lady, I don’t even know what that means.”

Hannah laughed, a sound like a ringing crystal bell, and Red Ryan thought it must be the sound the heavenly angels make when they hear a good joke. “It means Around the World in Eighty Days,” the woman said. “It’s about a gentleman called Phileas Fogg and his valet who travel around the world in a balloon, and it’s very popular both in this country and in Europe. I’m told Queen Victoria is fond of it and has read it through several times.”

“Miss Huckabee meet Queen Victoria and like her very much,” Mr. Chang said. “And Queen Victoria like Miss Huckabee very much.”

“We met only for afternoon tea,” Hannah said. “I didn’t attend one of her balls or anything like that, but she baked one of her special sponge cakes for the occasion.”

“Queen Victoria very good baker,” Mr. Chang said.

“And now you want to go around the world like that Fogg feller?” Red said.

“Yes, I do. I don’t have a valet like Mr. Fogg, but I have Mr. Chang.” Hannah smiled. “Of course, I doubt that I’ll make the trip in eighty days, since a balloon depends on the vagaries of the wind, and I will also need to employ other means of travel, like steam train and ship, but I’m an adventuress and I’m willing to give it a try. I do very much wish to sail in a balloon above the pyramids of Egypt and the temples of India and pay a return visit to Cathay and fly over the Great Wall.”

Buttons looked confused. “Don’t that take a lot of money? I mean, to go gallivanting around the world like that in a flying machine?”

“Oh, yes it does, Mr. Muldoon,” Hannah said. “But a late uncle left me a considerable fortune in his will, on the condition that I don’t agree to be some man’s dutiful little wife and stay home and become a drawing-room ornament. Uncle Chester was an adventurer who became rich pearl diving in the Philippines, where the pearls are said to be the finest in the world. Though he later went into the iron and steel business, it pleased him that I followed in his shoes and became an adventuress.”

“Miss Huckabee’s uncle was very rich man, knew many powerful people,” Mr. Chang said. “President of America shake her hand, and Czar of Russia give her a kiss on the cheek.”

“Yes, President Grant and uncle Chester were very close, as was millionaire Andrew Mellon,” Hannah said. “And of course, he counted the Czar of Russia among his friends, and he and the Chinese emperor corresponded regularly. Uncle Chester had a good singing voice and was very popular.”

Hannah took a sip of water, slowly lowered the canteen, and said, “Red, stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”

Red sat with his arms behind him and didn’t have time to move a muscle because three events followed very fast . . .

Hannah dropped the canteen, splashing water. An ominous rattle sounded close to Red’s right hand. And the girl drew her Colt and fired.

Red yelped and jumped to his feet, his eyes wild. “What the hell?” he shouted. “Why did you shoot at me?”

“Snake,” Hannah said. She held her revolver alongside her head, the muzzle pointing at the sky, trailing smoke. “I hate snakes. All adventurers hate snakes. They’re the bane of our existence, sly, slithering creatures that they are.”

Red looked down at the big, headless diamondback coiling and uncoiling on the grass where he’d been sitting. “Damn, that son of a bitch could’ve killed me,” he said.

“It could’ve killed something, depending where it bit,” Hannah said.

She punched out the spent round from the Colt cylinder and replaced it with a cartridge from her belt. “Snakes and I just don’t get along. I once got bitten by a cobra in Macau and like to have died. Only the presence of a Portuguese army surgeon saved my life, but it was a damned close thing.” Her beautiful eyes lifted to Red’s face. “Are you all right? You had a nasty scare.”

“Yeah, I’m all right,” Red said. He picked up his derby hat, rammed it onto his mop of unruly red hair, and then, his masculine pride exerting itself, he added, “I don’t scare real easy.”

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t,” Hannah said, smiling slightly.

“Miss Huckabee don’t scare worth a damn, but she very afraid of snakes,” Mr. Chang said.

“I think we’ve already established that, Mr. Chang,” Hannah said, frowning. “Sometimes you will belabor the point. I’m sure it’s a Chinese thing.”

She rose and picked up the still-writhing diamondback and held it high for Red and Buttons to see. “Even minus the head, he’s a good four foot long,” the girl said. “Anyone want the rattle? No?” She tossed the snake away and smiled. “I think that’s enough excitement for one day, don’t you?”

“Hell, it’s more than enough for me,” Buttons said. “I don’t cotton to snakes, either.”

“And I second that,” Red said. Then, “Buttons, let’s cut a trail.”

“Suits me just fine,” Buttons said. He climbed into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins of the resting team.

As Red gathered up the blanket and the food that hadn’t been eaten, Hannah stepped beside him and said, “I’d be most grateful if you’d take me and Mr. Chang to Fort Concho with you. Our balloon is ruined, and the burner was lost overboard during the storm.”

“Well, we can’t leave you here to starve,” Red said. “I was about to suggest that you come with us as far as Fort Concho.”

Buttons looked down from his high perch and said, “Miss Huckabee, it’s the policy of the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and express Company that passengers may be picked up along the route if there is room within and said passengers have the necessary coin for the fare.”

“I can pay,” Hannah said.

“Buttons, she saved my life,” Red said.

“I know she did. But company policy is company policy, Red. You know that, because you’re always quoting it. Miss Huckabee, the fare to Fort Concho will be fifty dollars for you and half that for the Chinee, since he doesn’t take up much room. Meals for the next two days included, of course.”

“That will be quite satisfactory,” Hannah said. “Red, if you would help me with my trunks?”

“Of course,” Red said. “And please excuse Buttons. He’s a die-hard company man.”

“Takes one to know one,” Buttons said.

Mr. Chang stepped in front of Red, bowed, and said, “Lady saved gentleman’s life. Gentleman must repay with life for a life.”

Red grinned. “Well then, I reckon taking Miss Huckabee to Fort Concho is payment enough.”

Mr. Chang nodded, unsmiling. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

The man at the open door of the Pink Pearl saloon in San Angelo turned to the patrons inside and said, “Well, Brack Cooley is on the street.”

“The fun begins,” a brunette girl in a short, scarlet dress and fishnet stockings said, as she and two dozen other men and women crowded into the doorway.

The sun was high in the sky, and the dusty town was oppressively hot. A yellow dog, sensing trouble, slunk from the boardwalk and crawled under the saloon.

“Where’s Frank Pickett?” the bartender yelled. “Did he show?”

“Not yet,” a man answered. Then, after a pause, “But ol’ Brack is standing outside the hotel, and he’s called Frank out. Man, he looks like he’s loaded for bear.”

A tall, slender man, expensively dressed, a diamond stickpin in his cravat, rose from a table, leaving two young companions, and stepped to the bar. In an exquisite English accent, he said, “Tell me, my good man, is Brack Cooley as dangerous as his reputation claims he is?”

The bartender, a florid-faced Irishman with no love for the English, looked his inquisitor up and down with considerable distaste and then said, “He’s a known man-killer. How dangerous is that?”

“I don’t know,” the Englishman said. “You tell me.”

The bartender ignored that last and his eyes moved to the door. “Is Frank in the street yet?”

“No, Tom,” a man said. “I’ll tell you when.”

His hands busy polishing a glass, the bartender said to the Englishman, “Brack Cooley has killed two dozen men, or so they say. Me, I think he’s probably done for more than that. He killed the three Simpson brothers that time in San Antone, picked them off one by one as they came at him in a hallway of the Red Garter cathouse. Shot a whore by mistake as well, but she recovered.”

“In Texas, Mr. Cooley is what’s called a bounty hunter?” the Englishman said. “Isn’t that the case?”

“Bounty hunter. Hired killer. Lawman. Brack does it all. He’s what you might call a jack of all trades.”

“And who is Frank Pickett?”

“A local hard case and sometimes cattle rustler. He has a reputation as a gunman here in Tom Green County, but I don’t know that he’s shot anybody. He’s got a two-hundred-dollar bounty on his head for lifting cows, and that’s why Cooley is here.”

The Englishman smirked. “Not much of a bounty, is it?”

“Times are hard,” the bartender said.

The man at the door yelled, “Tom, quick! Frank’s walked out of the hotel. And he’s wearing both his guns.”

The bartender quickly crossed the floor and walked onto the porch. The Englishman followed.

Brack Cooley raised his left hand, palm forward, as though fending off Pickett. “Frank,” he yelled, “I’m taking you in for the reward on your sorry hide. What’s it to be? Will you come quietly, or do we go to the gun? State your intentions.”

To the delight of the onlookers, Pickett, a short, towheaded man missing his two front teeth, stepped off the hotel porch and opened fire as soon as his boots hit the street. He got off three fast shots, all of them wild, one round so errant that it splintered into the saloon doorway and precipitated a lively stampede back inside by most of the spectators. The Englishman and the bartender were among those who remained, and they saw Brack Cooley raise his revolver to eye level and fire. At a distance of twenty yards, the bounty hunter needed only one shot. Pickett dropped dead without a sound, a bullet hole blossoming like an opening rose smack in the middle of his low forehead.

As Pickett hit the dirt, Cooley holstered his gun and then looked around him at the people on the boardwalks. “He was notified,” he said. “Anybody here say he wasn’t?”

A man with a gray hair and a town marshal’s star on his vest stepped into the street and said, “It was self-defense. I seen it all, Brack.”

“Just so you know it was legal and aboveboard,” Cooley said. He scowled at the frightened lawman. “Who pays the bounty? Speak up, now.”

“County sheriff, Brack,” the marshal said.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone fishing, but he said he’ll be back before nightfall.”

Cooley thought that through and then said, “I’ll wait.”

A tall, black-haired man with eyes the color of a winter mist, Cooley grabbed the dead man by the collar of his coat and dragged him to the front of the hotel, where Pickett’s paint pony stood hipshot at the hitching rail. Displaying considerable strength, Cooley threw the little man across his saddle and then tied the horse beside his own waiting mount outside the Pink Pearl.

He looked at the crowd on the saloon porch and said, “You heard the marshal. It was self-defense. Anybody see it different?”

“Marshal Lewis called it as he saw it, Brack,” the bartender said. “Pickett fired first and missed with three shots. Nobody is blaming you.”

A mixologist being a highly respected member of any western community, there were no dissenting voices.

“So be it,” Cooley said. “Now, who will buy me a drink?”

“I’d be honored, sir.”

The gunman turned and saw a tall, thin man dressed in a black cutaway morning coat, claret-colored vest, and high-collared shirt and cravat. He wore a top hat and a bemused expression, as though the rough-hewn Cooley was an exotic creature beyond his understanding.

“And who are you?” the gunman said.

The tall man smiled. “Someone with your well-being in mind who wishes to place you in his employ. But first a private word with you, Mr. Cooley, if you will.”

Cooley shrugged. “Sure.” Then, “Are you heeled?”

“No.” The tall man didn’t elaborate. But he was obviously a gentleman, and his word was enough.

Cooley stepped closer to the Englishman. “Talk,” he said. “I want to hear about my well-being an’ all.”

“I want you to kill a man, Mr. Cooley.”

“I’ve done that before. Who’s the man? Is he a gun?”

“I presume you mean has he practiced with arms?”

“I mean is he a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will cost you more for the kill. If the mark is a shootist, I run a higher risk, and in my profession high risks don’t come cheap.”

“The mark, as you call him, is a yellow-bellied coward, Mr. Cooley. Does that make a difference?”

The gunman thought about that, his black eyes on the Englishman’s face. Then he said, “Hell, mister, if he’s a coward, why don’t you shoot him your ownself?”

The tall man’s face stiffened. “Because I don’t want to dirty my hands.”

“But you want me to dirty mine?”

“You can wash your hands later. No matter how many times I washed my hands they would always be stained with a coward’s blood, and I could not live with that. I assure you that you’ll be paid well for your trouble, Mr. Cooley.”

“How well?”

“Five hundred dollars n. . .