Riding Shotgun by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2019-04-01T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When Red Ryan and Buttons Muldoon drove into El Paso, the early-evening festivities were in full swing . . . as though the murder of the Apache had gone unnoticed.

Buttons drove to the sheriff’s office, and the stage jangled to a halt. Scalded by anger, Red jumped down and opened the stage door to retrieve Nascha’s body, then stopped as T. C. Lyons staggered out onto the boardwalk.

The sheriff had been badly beaten.

His face was bruised, his left eye swollen shut, and there was blood in his mouth. It looked like his left cheek had been scratched by a knife blade, and his clothing was ripped, the ends of his celluloid collar up around his ears.

Lyons glimpsed the Apache’s body through the open door of the stage and said, his voice a harsh croak, “Damn you, Ryan, don’t blame me none. I tried to stop them. I did my best to save him.”

“Who did it, Lyons?” Red said. “Who lynched him?”

“Half the damned town. I couldn’t fight off half the town.” Then, as though he couldn’t believe it had happened. “They beat me, Ryan. My own town . . . folks I know . . . and they beat me.”

Lyons took a step toward Red, and then groaned and fell heavily to the boardwalk.

“He’s out, Buttons. Let’s get him inside,” Red said.

The four-man orchestra of the nearby saloon played “Oh! Susanna” and boots thumped on a timber floor as Red and Buttons half-carried, half-dragged Lyons inside and dropped him into the chair behind his desk.

“Where do you suppose he keeps his whiskey?” Red said.

“Tr y the bottom drawers of the desk,” Buttons said. “Lyons is a bottom-drawer drinker if ever I saw one.”

Red was sure there was Buttons Muldoon logic there someplace, but he did as the driver said, and sure enough in one of the drawers he found a bottle of Old Crow and glasses. He poured whiskey for Buttons and himself and then a glass for Lyons that he held to the man’s lips.

“Drink this,” Red said. “It will do you good.”

Lyon’s eyes fluttered open and he said, “I don’t drink.”

“You do now,” Red said. He tipped whiskey into the sheriff’s mouth.

Lyons lurched forward in his chair, coughing, the bite of Old Crow in his throat. “Enough!” he gasped.

“You back in the land of the living?” Red said.

“More or less. There’s coffee. Bring me a cup.”

Muldoon poured coffee from a pot on the stove and brought it to the sheriff. Red waited until the man had taken a gulp and then said, “All right, tell me what happened.”

“Somebody riled them up, turned a crowd into a mob with free whiskey and wild talk,” Lyons said. “They came for the Apache, and there was no stopping them.”

“Recognize any of them?” Red said.

“Hell, Ryan, I recognized all of them.”

“Good, then after they sober up you can arrest them for murder,” Red said.

Lyons shook his head. “I got maybe two deputies I can count on. How are three of us

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