Last Stage to El Paso

Book 5: Red Ryan Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Riding shotgun, Red Ryan leads a doomed stagecoach of the damned on the longest, deadliest journey of his life . . .



FIVE PASSENGERS. 400 MILES. 1,000 WAYS TO DIE.



According to local legend, the stagecoach known as the Gray Ghost is either haunted, cursed, or just plain unlucky. Each of its last three drivers and three more riding shotgun came to a violent, bloody end. And now it's Red Ryan's turn to guard five foolhardy passengers on the stage's next—and possibly last—trip. The travelers are a small troupe of performers with dark histories of their own: a song-and-dance man with a drinking problem, a juggler with a secret, a knife thrower with a past, and a beautiful fan dancer who's on the run from a one-eyed, vengeance-seeking outlaw . . .



Red's not the superstitious type. But with Apaches on the warpath with bloodlust—and a one-eyed cutthroat killer on his trail—this 400 mile journey is like something straight out of his worst nightmare. And all the roads lead straight to hell . . .

Release date: December 28, 2021

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

In the late summer of 1889, a six-horse team brought the Abbot and Morrison mail stage safely home to San Angelo . . . with two dead men in the box.

“How many does that make?” Captain Anton Decker said.

Long John Abbot looked miserable. Stunned. His bearded face ashen. “Six,” he said. He shook his head. “I can’t believe Phineas Doyle and Dewey Wilcox are dead. Just like that . . . dead.”

“Believe it, they’re all shot to pieces,” Major Lewis Kane, the 10th Cavalry doctor, said. Gray-haired with a deeply lined face, he didn’t appear too old to be a doctor but was well past his prime as an army officer. He climbed down from the box, shook his head, and added, “There’s nothing I can do for them. They look like they’ve been dead for several hours.”

Captain Decker, at twenty-seven, the youngest company commander in Fort Concho, was somewhat less than sympathetic. He badly wanted a name as an Indian fighter, but the Plains tribes were subdued and there was little glamour in fighting Apaches. “I’ll report the incident to Colonel Grierson but I’m sure he’ll agree that this is a civilian matter,” he said.

“The army could help me round up the road agents that are responsible for my six dead,” Abbot said.

“As I said, I believe it’s a strictly civilian matter,” Decker said. “Perhaps if your stages were carrying army payrolls we would’ve taken an interest, but since they were not, it’s unlikely Colonel Grierson will become involved, especially after the 10th Cavalry moved out and left us so undermanned.”

“I’ll talk to the county sheriff,” Abbot said. “But he won’t do anything.”

“Try him. He might round up a posse or something.”

Abbot laid bleak eyes on the soldier. “He’ll sit in his chair with his feet on his desk, drink coffee, and give me sympathy, not a posse.”

“That’s just too bad,” Decker said. He saluted smartly. “Your obedient servant, Mr. Abbot. Now, see to your dead.”

“Two more, Long John,” said Max Brewster, a small man dressed in buckskins, dwarfed by Abbot’s six foot six and maybe a little more height. “On the El Paso run like the other four.”

Brewster had once been a first-rate whip until the rheumatism in both hands done for him. Now he wore a plug hat and his stained and ragged buckskins and helped around the Abbot and Morrison stage depot. He favored a pipe that belched smoke that smelled bad.

“Phineas Doyle dead, murdered,” Abbot said, shaking his head. “He was the best whip in Texas, bar none.”

“And afore him, it was me,” Brewster said. “Leastwise, that’s what folks said.”

“I ain’t gonna dispute that, Max,” Abbot said. He was a slightly round-shouldered man wearing a sweat-stained hat, a white collarless shirt, narrow suspenders, and black pants tucked into mule-ear boots. A man who never carried a gun, he now had a Remington tucked into his waistband, a sure sign that the death of his men had shaken him to the core.

“A gray stage,” Max Brewster said after a while. He shook his head. “Now, that’s unlucky. The Indians say like black, gray is no color at all and it can betoken loss and sadness. There are some Arapaho, and Utes as well, who would rather freeze to death than use a gray army blanket. It disturbs the hell out of them.”

“So, what are the other drivers saying?” Abbot said.

“I just left the Alamo saloon and it’s all folks are talking about,” Brewster said. “They’re saying three drivers and three messengers shot dead and not a bullet hole to be found anywhere in the stage is mighty strange. I reckon that’s why they’re calling the coach the Gray Ghost. Some say it’s haunted and it was the restless spirit of Phineas Doyle that drove it back here to the depot.”

“That’s foolish talk,” Abbot said. “It’s a coach like any other.”

“No, sir, it’s a coach like no other,” Brewster said. “It’s a death trap, just ask Frank Gordon and Mack Blair, Steve Tanner and Lone Wolf Ellis Bryant, and now Phineas Doyle and Dewey Wilcox.”

“They’re all dead,” Abbot said, irritated. “I can’t ask them anything.”

“And they’re all dead because of the Gray Ghost,” Brewster said. “Long John, it was your last stage to El Paso. You ain’t never gonna find another driver or shotgun guard to work for you.”

Abbot watched as the undertaker and his assistant lowered the bodies from the seat of the coach, bloody corpses with blue faces, open eyes staring into nothingness. Phineas Doyle’s gray beard was stained with blood and there was a wound that looked like a blossoming rose smack in the middle of Dewey Wilcox’s forehead.

The undertaker, a sprightly skeleton dressed in a broadcloth suit with narrow pants and a black top hat tied around with a wide taffeta ribbon, the ends hanging over his skinny shoulders, laid the corpses on a flat wagon and then said, his voice like a creaky gate, “Same as the other four deceased, Mr. Abbot?”

“Yeah, Silas, board coffins but clean them fellers up nice for viewing,” Abbot said. “The womenfolk like that.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Silas Woods said. His eyes moved from Long John to the stage. “Gray,” he said. “Now, that’s unusual, a gray stage.”

“I know,” Abbot said.

“Gray as graveyard mist,” the undertaker said. “Why gray?”

“A canceled order,” Abbot said. “I was told it was originally destined for a count in Transylvania, a country in eastern Europe somewhere. The coach is worth eighteen hundred dollars and I got it for fourteen hundred.”

“You didn’t get yourself a bargain,” Woods said. He shook his head. “No, sir.”

Abbot watched the undertaker’s wagon leave, drawn by a black mule. His great beak of a nose under arched black eyebrows gave Long John the look of a perpetually surprised owl. He turned and said to Brewster, “If I can’t find a driver, I’m out fourteen hundred dollars and out of business.” He thought for a moment and said, “What about Buttons Muldoon?”

“He’s working for Abe Patterson,” Brewster said. “Muldoon’s messenger is a young feller by the name of Red Ryan who’s right handy with a gun and they say fear doesn’t enter into his thinking. But I don’t think those two will switch, and even if they did, they won’t come cheap.”

“All I can afford is cheap, the cheaper the better,” Abbot said.

Brewster gave the man a long, speculative look and then said, “By the way, Abe Patterson is in town. He’s over to his depot.”

“What’s that to me?” Abbot said.

Brewster smiled. “Long John, Patterson is made of money. Some folks say he’s so rich he’s got a half interest in the whole of creation.”

“Made of money, huh?” Abbot said.

“Got a big, turreted mansion house up San Angelo way and a young, high-yeller wife to go along with it. A lively-stepping filly like that costs a man plenty and ol’ Abe sure spends plenty on her.”

Long John brightened. “Here . . . Max . . . you’ve given me an idea.”

“I figured as much,” Brewster said.

“Sure, Patterson is made of money. Like you said, everybody knows that. Hell, I can probably unload the stage. Abe won’t pass up a bargain like that.”

“How much, Long John?”

“How much what?”

“How much are you willing to take for the Gray Ghost?”

“I think maybe a thousand.”

“Think again,” Brewster said. “How much?”

“Nine hundred?” Abbot said, his face framing a question.

“Seven hundred and fifty and let him talk you down to seven hundred,” Brewster said. “Abe will dicker and he’s good at it.”

“That’s half what I paid for it,” Abbot said. A thin whine.

Brewster smiled. “As the starving man said, Half a pie is better than no pie at all.”

Abbot thought that through and said finally, “You think Abe will go for it?”

“Damn right he will,” Brewster said. “A sharp businessman like Abe Patterson won’t pass up a new Concord stage for seven hundred dollars.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know it’s a bad luck coach,” Abbot said.

“Long John, the whole town knows, and you can bet so does Abe,” Brewster said. “But he ain’t the superstitious type and to him a bargain, even if it’s on the creepy side, is still a bargain.”

“I could go into another business with seven hundred dollars,” Abbot said. “I always figured I could prosper in hardware.”

“There you go, Long John, selling pots and pans is just the thing for a man like you. Help you make your mark in the world.”

“Right, I’ll go do a little hoss trading with Abe.”

“Good luck, and don’t let him get you under seven hundred, mind,” Brewster said.

Long John Abbot poured another splash of whiskey into Abe Patterson’s glass. “Abe, seven-fifty, and I can go no lower than that without starving my wife and children,” he said. “Have a cigar.”

Abe Patterson took a cigar from the proffered box and said, “I hope the cigar is better than your whiskey. And that wouldn’t be difficult.”

“Two-cent Cubans,” Abbot said. “Top-notch.” He passed on commenting on the busthead that he bought by the jug.

Patterson took his time lighting his cigar and behind a curtain of blue smoke said, “I’m thinking about it, Long John. Giving it my most serious consideration.”

“Red leather seating, Abe,” Abbot said. “Now, that’s class. I mean, that’s big city.”

“What about the sign on the doors?” Patterson said. “Some kind of fancy letter D.”

“Ah, the coach was a canceled order from some count in Transylvania . . .”

“Where?”

“Transylvania. It’s a country in eastern Europe. I guess the gent’s name began with a D.”

“Davy? Donny? Deacon?”

“Something like that, I guess,” Abbot said. “Them foreigners have strange notions and stranger names.”

“Seven hundred,” Patterson said. “I will go no higher. Hard times, Long John, with the railroads expanding an’ all, laying rails all over the place and taking a big chunk of my business. I just don’t have as much capital to invest as I once did.”

Abbot pretended to consider Abe’s offer for a moment and then jumped to his feet.

“Done and done,” he said. He extended his hand to Patterson, a feisty little banty rooster a foot smaller than himself. Abe took Abbot’s hand and said, “Have some of your men push or pull the thing to my depot as soon as the blood is washed off the driver’s seat. Then come over yourself and I’ll pay you.”

“I’m glad you don’t believe all that loose talk about the stage being haunted and all,” Abbot said.

Abe Patterson smiled. “If I did, I’d tell you to hitch up a team and have Phineas Doyle drive it over.”

“Phineas Doyle drove the stage back to the depot even though he was as dead as mutton,” Patrick “Buttons” Muldoon said, his blue eyes as round as coins. “His ghost was standing over his shot-up body, the ribbons in his hands. Ol’ Max Brewster says he seen that with his own two eyes and he says the coach was almost invisible, like a gray, graveyard mist.”

“I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said.

“And Max says that letter D on the doors stands for death,” Red Ryan said. “He says it must be a stage that carried the souls of the deceased and that’s why Long John Abbot got it cheap.”

“I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said.

“And, boss, you got it even cheaper, mind,” Buttons said. He was dressed in a blue sailor coat decorated with two rows of silver buttons that gave him his name. He and Red Ryan had just arrived at the depot after a short mail run to Abilene and were mostly dust-free. “Boss, they call the stage the Gray Ghost and they say it’s cursed,” Buttons continued. “It’s already been the death of six men and me and Red would make it eight.”

“I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said.

Red Ryan said, “Max Brewster says that over to the Alamo saloon, Lonesome Edna Vincent, she’s the redhead with the big . . .”

“I know who she is, and whatever she said, I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said.

“You haven’t heard what I have to say yet,” Red said. “Well, anyway, Max says that Edna says that she was asleep in her cot the very night the stage was delivered to Long John Abbot’s depot. Then, when all the clocks in town chimed at the same time, saying that it was two in the morning, a loud and terrible scream woke her.”

“I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said.

“Then Max says that Edna says she got up and looked out the window and then she heard the howls and wails of the damned coming from a gray coach. Max says that Edna says that the stage was rocking back and forth and seemed to be covered by an unholy blue fire. Max says that Edna says she got the fear of God in her and didn’t get another wink of sleep all night.”

Buttons said, arranging his features into an expression that passed for sincerity, “So, boss, after all them scary ha’ants you can savvy why me and Red can’t drive the Gray Ghost. And now let us both thankee most wholeheartedly for your kindness, consideration, and understanding.”

“I don’t believe it,” Abe Patterson said. “I don’t believe that two grown men would set store by such nonsense. Road agents and maybe Apaches done for Long John’s men, not a curse.”

“But, boss . . .” Buttons said.

Patterson held up a silencing hand. “No buts. Here’s the situation. You already know, or maybe you don’t, that the Apaches are out, a dozen renegades riding with the four half-breed Griffin brothers.”

“I heard them Griffin breeds were hung by vigilantes up in the New Mexico Territory,” Buttons said. “Didn’t you hear that, Red?”

Red shook his head. “No, I can’t say as I did. But folks don’t tell me much.”

“Seems that you heard wrong, Mr. Muldoon,” Abe said. “A Texas Ranger by the name of Tom Wilson told me that five days ago the Griffins and the Apaches with them attacked a ranch house to the east of here, killed three men, and ran off with a couple of women. Wilson said he doubts that the women are still alive, but if they are, by now they’ll be wishing they wasn’t.” Abe consulted his gold watch, snapped it shut, and said, “Ranger Wilson had more to tell. He told me no later than this morning that Powell left Fort Worth four days ago. Remember him? The local lawman wired that Powell has took to wearing an eye patch, and he swears that him and his boys are headed south.”

“Or so the lawman says. Nobody’s heard of Luke Powell in years,” Red said.

Buttons said, “Who is he? I never heard of him until now. Maybe I was at sea at that time.”

Red said, “It was before my time as a messenger, when I was still cowboying for Charlie Goodnight’s JA Ranch up in the Panhandle, that Powell worked his protection racket, guaranteeing owners that their stages wouldn’t be robbed if they paid up. He made some good money at it, too. But the last I heard he was an expensive hired assassin who squeezed cash or property from the marks to spare their lives. That way he got paid at both ends. But he suddenly dropped out of sight two or three years ago. Some say he fled abroad to escape the law, some say he found religion, so who knows what happened to him.”

Abe waved his cigar and blue smoke curled in the air. “Maybe Luke Powell has returned to his old ways and he and his boys killed Doyle and Wilcox last night or this morning . . . or the Apaches did. The Apaches would do it for fun and Powell out of spite because the Abbot stage carries mail and never a strongbox. Well, I should say that it did carry mail. Long John told me he’s quit the business and he’s transferring the mail and his passengers to me.”

“Powell was never known to be a road agent,” Red said. “It’s not his style.”

Buttons snorted his disbelief. “Of course it wasn’t Powell or Indians or anybody else. Everybody knows it was the Gray Ghost its own self that done for them six fellers.”

“Mr. Muldoon, I don’t wish to hear that again,” Patterson said, frowning. “The coach is now with the Abe Patterson and Son Stage and Express Company and you will kindly refer to it as Number Seven. Do I make myself clear?”

“Why us?” Red Ryan said. “Boss, you’ve got other drivers and messengers.”

“None of them as reliable as you and Mr. Muldoon,” Patterson said. “That’s the fact of the matter.”

“And suppose we refuse?” Buttons said. His chin was set and stubborn and the buttons on his coat shone like newly minted silver dollars.

“Ah, if you refuse to work?” Abe rubbed his chin. Suddenly his eyes had all the warmth of shotgun muzzles. “Hmm . . . well, in that case, you’ll be dismissed instanter. And you’ll never work for an employer more caring of his men than me. That is, if you can find another situation in these hard times.”

Abe Patterson saw Buttons’s crestfallen look and his face softened a little. “Here, have a drink.” He opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Old Crow and three glasses. He poured the whiskey and said, “I know how you men feel, and I don’t have a heart of stone. Your maidenly fears have not gone unheeded, and that’s why I’ve chosen an easy run just for you . . . five theater performers to Houston, passengers as genteel and gracious as they come. Drink up, boys.”

“I’ll be driving the Gray . . .”

“Careful, Mr. Muldoon. I don’t want to hear that name ever again, remember?”

“Driving ol’ Number Seven,” Buttons said, his face glum.

“Yes, and she’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Patterson said, beaming. “Red leather upholstery and curtains, special-order thoroughbraces so it feels like you’re riding on a cloud. She’s a work of art, by God, and once you get used to her ways, you lucky boys will love her.”

Despite the warm caress of the whiskey, Buttons was still in a funk. “Three hundred and fifty miles of nothing but grass,” he said, “on a route I’ve traveled only a couple of times afore, plus Apaches, the Griffin brothers, and road agents takes a heap of loving.”

“And that’s exactly why I kept the Houston run for you and Mr. Ryan,” Patterson said. “The Apaches and the Griffin boys are raising hell to the west of us so you’ll be well away from those savages. And Luke Powell need not concern us. The Ranger said he stays close to towns, especially Fort Smith and New Orleans, where there’s whiskey and whores and pilgrims to be fleeced. I can’t see him crossing an empty prairie, even to get his revenge on Miss Erica Hall.” Abe spread his hands. “I’ll tell you about her later. Now, Mr. Muldoon, don’t complain. It will be an easy run. The way is smooth and the weather is fair. It will be like taking a bunch of flowers to your favorite maiden aunt for her birthday.” He smiled. “And you boys can see paddle steamers in the Houston canal. Now, that’s worth the trip, don’t you think?”

“If we get there alive,” Buttons said. “If ol’ Number Seven doesn’t decide to do for us like it did to them others.”

“Well”—Abe’s smile was as sincere as the grin on a Louisiana alligator—“it’s come down to this . . . You boys have a choice to make and I can only hope it’s the right one.”

“And that is?” Buttons said.

“Get on the stage or get fired. Think it over.”

“We’ve thought it over,” Red Ryan said.

“And?” Patterson said.

“We’ll ride the stage,” Red said.

Buttons looked at him aghast. “Are you out of your mind?” he said.

“Study on it,” Red said. “Summer’s almost over and winter will come down fast. We got a cozy enough berth here in San Angelo and don’t need to be spending December with empty bellies riding the grub line.”

“And here’s a kicker, a real humdinger as they say up Montana way. A twenty-dollar bonus for each of you after you deliver your passengers safely to the Diamond music hall in Houston, where they expect to be hired in a heartbeat, and I reckon they will,” Abe said. “So there it is, gentlemen, an extra double eagle each for a nice, easy drive in the late summer sun. Even if you were my own sons, my own flesh and blood, I couldn’t say any fairer than that.”

“We’ll take it,” Red said. “When do we start?”

Abe glared at Buttons. “You don’t look too sure, Mr. Muldoon.”

“All right, I’ll drive the gray stage,” Buttons said. “I’m not a one to believe in ghosts and ha’ants an’ stuff, but the first time it comes up with something spooky, I’ll mount the passengers on the backs of the team and leave Number Seven right where it’s at.”

“It won’t come to that pass,” Abe said. “Trust me, you’ll have a safe journey, I guarantee it. Now, let me read you the passenger list I got from Long John Abbot. Remember, these are all theater performers, what they call vaudeville artistes, so needless to say there will be no cussing, tobacco spitting, or crude jokes when you’re around those nice people. Do I make myself clear?”

Red nodded, and Abe took that as a yes from both of the men. He balanced a pair of pince-nez spectacles at the end of his nose and read from a scrap of paper.

“As I said, all this is from Long John,” Abe said. “He said the artistes came from Fort Worth to San Angelo on two different C. Bain and Company stages, and that Erica Hall is the main attraction. She’s a fan dancer from England and by all accounts is a lovely lass.”

“What’s a fan dancer?” Buttons said. He was surly. He guessed fan dancing was another of those fancy, big-city notions that were steadily eating away at the already shaky foundations of the Western Frontier.

“According to Long John, Miss Hall dances nak. . .