Albavera leaped over the fire, manacles clinking as he slashed the skillet, cutting through the air.
Chance stumbled, and went down. That likely saved his life. The blackened frying pan weighed close to eight pounds. Had it connected with his face, it would have crushed his skull.
The skillet swooshed over his head, clipping the crown of his hat. The momentum of the swing sent Albavera spinning, and he tripped over a rock. The skillet slipped from his grip, crashing against the lava boulder.
The horses snorted, and stomped their hoofs.
Chance rolled over, freeing the Schofield from the holster with his right hand. He was thumbing back the hammer when Albavera leaped onto him, pinning the Ranger’s hand in the sand with his knee. Albavera, his face an ugly grimace, leaned forward, bringing the chains that held his wrists against Chance’s throat. He pressed down with all his might.
His right hand pinned, the Smith & Wesson behind his back, impossible to reach, Chance shot his left hand forward, past the chain, and went right to Albavera’s throat. He locked tight, and squeezed.
Their eyes met, locked, masked in determination.
It seemed just a matter of who’d slip into unconsciousness first.
CHAPTER NINE
The cold front had passed on, bringing the temperatures to something more reasonable, something one would likely expect from a burnt-over patch of brutally harsh desert. The wind hadn’t stopped, of course. The wind seldom died down in Texas.
Hec Savage led his Rangers through a forest of ocotillo, the arms of the cacti stretching out, swaying, like tentacles from a navy of giant sea monsters. The Santiago Mountains rose to the east, the Del Norte range was ahead. The sky was clear, pale, and endless. Toward the Rangers came a lone rider, heading south. Savage had been watching him for the past twenty minutes, but showed little concern. One man against ten Rangers? Ten of Savage’s Rangers, for that matter.
Suddenly, Savage reined in the gray, lifting his right hand, bringing his men to a halt behind him. Ahead, the rider spurred his brown horse into a lope. Lowering his hand, Savage pushed back the tail of his coat, and gripped the horn.
At first, he let out a long sigh. Then, he muttered an oath.
“Ain’t that . . . ?” Doc Shaw began.
“Yeah.” Savage spit tobacco juice onto a pile of coyote dung.
The rider slowed his gelding, and walked the last few rods, smiling pleasantly, greeting the Rangers. The wind carried the dust to the southeast, away from Savage and his men.
After he shifted the chaw of tobacco to his other cheek, Savage said, “Wickes, what the hell are you doing here?”
The smile on Lieutenant Ray Wickes’s face vanished. “Well—” he started.
“I ordered you, Turp and Babbitt—wrote those orders out, mind you—to escort the bodies of your fallen comrades for fitting burials back east. Didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yet here you are. Twenty-five miles from Marathon.”
“Yes, Captain. But—”
“Where are Turp and Babbitt?”
“Oh.” Wickes’s gelding fought the bit. He pulled back on the rein, and spoke to the horse, shifting his weight in the saddle. “They got on the eastbound S.P. all right. I gave them the orders you wrote me, told them what to do. They’ll make sure Magruder and Smith are buried properly. Just like you wanted, Captain.”
“My orders said for you to go with them, Lieutenant.”
“I know that, sir. But you once told me orders aren’t written in stone. Some are meant to be broken.”
“Orders from Austin. Not mine.”
“But there were a passel of wires to you, Captain. From the colonel in Austin. I thought I should bring those to you. Colonel Thomas is in a snit.”
“Bugger the colonel!” Savage thumbed out the chaw, and hurled it across the desert floor.
In the silence that followed, Ray Wickes wet his lips with his tongue. A gust of wind almost took his hat off. He had to grab the crown with his right hand, and that spooked the gelding more. When Wickes had his horse under control again, he turned in the saddle, opened one of the bags strapped behind the cantle, reached inside, and withdrew a slip of yellow paper.
“Captain,” he said. “This telegraph was waiting at the Marathon depot.” The lieutenant lowered his head, and read:
UNDER NO CONDITIONS WILL YOU PURSUE LO GRANDE ACROSS THE RIO GRANDE STOP KEEP CLOSE TO MARATHON AND MURPHYVILLE STOP TOO MUCH AT STAKE STOP ADVISE IF YOU NEED ADDITIONAL MEN STOP
“It’s signed Colonel Thomas. There are more wires, too.”
“Hand me that one.”
Wickes eased the gelding closer to Savage and the gray. The Ranger captain snatched the paper from Wickes’s fingers, and folded the telegraph’s edge. Next, he fished out a pack of Bull Durham, sprinkling an even measure of tobacco flakes onto the paper. Once he had pulled the drawstring shut with his teeth, he shoved the tobacco pouch back into his coat pocket, and casually rolled the telegraph into a cigarette. After licking it, he stuck it in his mouth. Doc Shaw eased his chestnut closer, struck a lucifer against the butt of his Colt, and brought the match closer as Savage leaned over to light the smoke. Staring at Wickes, Savage sat ramrod straight in the saddle, took a deep drag, held the smoke for a moment, then exhaled.
“That’s what that pettifogging colonel’s messages mean to me,” Savage told Wickes. “That’s what I think of his damned orders.”
“But—”
“I intend to stay close to Marathon and Murphyville. Why the hell do you think I’ve left Fort Leaton?”
“Well, yes, sir. Of course, sir. But . . . well . . . Colonel Thomas’s instructions about men. You lost Magruder and Smith. I didn’t think you’d want to send all of us with their bodies. I mean, Turpen and Babbitt could handle the job. I thought you might need me.”
With a snigger, Savage removed the smoke from his lips. “Need you?” He shook his head.
“You heard from Sergeant Chance?” Doc Shaw suddenly asked.
The smile vanished from Savage’s face. Suddenly, he looked interested.
Wickes shook his head. “The woman who runs the saloon—”
“Grace Profit?” Savage interrupted.
“Yes, sir. She hadn’t seen him in a while. Asked about him, though.”
“She ask about me?” Savage winked. The cigarette, even though the paper tasted funny, had put him relatively at ease.
“No, sir. Well, she told me she’d met you.” He shook his head sadly. “She’d met Wes Smith, too. Nice woman. But the whiskey she serves . . .” He let out a haggard breath. “She took that whore.”
Savage stiffened, his calm feeling abruptly halted. He gripped the saddle horn again, and leaned forward. “What?”
“Took that whore. Miss Kincaid. We were sitting in that tent she calls a saloon, and she grabbed the woman, took her to the hotel. She, Miss Profit again, or is it Missus? I don’t know. Anyhow, that’s where she lives. In the hotel. She took the whore to her room. Said it wasn’t right for Miss Kincaid to stay with us. Not after all she’d been through. She was right about that. Turpen told me and Babbitt, after those two women had gone, told us we should have done that, or at least suggested it. Guess we weren’t thinking straight. Grace Profit said she’d take care of the woman, give her a bath, give her a new dress.”
“I told Eulalia to fix that Kincaid woman a bath. Told her to give her a dress.”
“I know that, Captain,” Wickes said. “But Eulalia didn’t do it. Maybe that whore didn’t want one. She was acting fairly crazy when we got her to Fort Leaton. But she was real calm, gentle, when Grace Profit led her out of that tent.”
Savage flicked the cigarette into the air. He’d have a few words with Eulalia when he returned to Fort Leaton.
“Well, that’s all right, I reckon,” Savage said, feeling a little better. “I’ll thank Grace personally when we get to Marathon.”
Doc Shaw cleared his throat. “You did put that whore on
the train, Lieutenant? Didn’t you?”
“We meant to. . . .”
Savage gripped the horn tighter, and felt the blood rushing to his head. He heard the stupid oaf talking, but couldn’t quite believe what that asinine Ray Wickes was saying.
“Figured we’d just fetch Miss Kincaid when the train came the next day. About ten minutes before it was due, I sent Babbitt to the hotel, but Grace Profit met him at the door to the hotel. She said Linda Kincaid had changed her mind, that she wasn’t going anywhere with the likes of us. Babbitt came back and told me, and I went to the inn. She, Miz Profit that is, told me the same thing. I told her I had orders. Pulled them out of my pocket. She said she didn’t give a damn. I asked her if Miss Kincaid planned on returning to Terlingua. Said I was riding back that way myself and could escort her. She said, no, Linda was staying with her. For the time being. You reckon Miz Profit wants a whore for her saloon?”
Savage eased back in the saddle, rested his hand on the butt of the Merwin Hulbert.
Wickes kept talking.
“I told Miz Profit that I’d need to hear that from Miss Kincaid, and, just like that, I heard a voice, looked up, and there was Miss Kincaid, leaning against the balustrade, telling me, in a real soft voice, that everything was all right, she had changed her mind, didn’t want to put her mother in harm’s way. I don’t know what she meant by that. She was wearing a robe. Her hair was wet. She’d taken a bath that night and again that morning. Looked a whole lot better than she had. She wished me luck. That was more than she’d said to Turp, Babbitt, and me on the whole ride up there.
“Anyway, like you said, orders aren’t written in stone, and we couldn’t force Miss Kincaid back to Houston. The train pulled up, I saw that the two coffins were loaded, shook hands with Turp and Babbitt, and watched the train pull off. I left the buckboard and Turp’s horse at the livery, and mounted Cimarron here.” He patted the horse’s neck, but the gelding didn’t appear to like being touched. “I gathered all those telegrams, and rode back to find you. Now, about those telegraphs Colonel Thomas had sent . . .”
He turned again, reached behind him for the open leather bag.
Savage drew the .44 and shot him. The bullet caught Wickes low in his right side, just above the waistline. It tore a wide path through his intestines, lodging just underneath his belly button. Gut-shot, Ray Wickes was a dead man. But not yet.
He let out a yell of surprise, and sank low. As the bullet’s impact turned him around, his right hand latched onto the saddle horn, and his left grabbed the brown gelding’s mane, keeping him in the saddle. The horse, which had been acting skittish on the journey south, bolted. Wickes hat flew off. The horse galloped across the desert floor, leaped over an arroyo, weaving a path among the ocotillo.
“Stop that son of a bitch!” Savage fired again, knowing he had missed.
His first shot had spooked the other horses, even the gray. Savage had to fight to get his own horse under control after the second shot. So did his men. Nobody had expected Savage to shoot. Even Doc Shaw’s mouth hung open.
“He’s getting away!” Savage screamed, and raked the sides of the gray with his spurs. He extended the Merwin Hulbert, and pulled the trigger, but the gray was leaping, spoiling his aim. The horse jumped the arroyo, but stumbled on the far side, and Savage dropped the .44. Kicking free of the stirrups, he sailed over the gray’s head, landing with a thud, trying, futilely, not to lose the reins.
He scrambled to his feet, saw the gray galloping after the brown, then turn and run southwest. The brown, with Wickes still in the saddle, raised dust toward Elephant Mountain. Savage drew his other .44, started to cock, but stopped and shoved the revolver back in the holster. Wickes and the gelding were out of pistol range. That damned horse flew like Pegasus.
“Get him!” Savage thundered, watching Doc Shaw lead the men across the desert. Demitrio went after Savage’s gray, now loping in the general direction of Fort Leaton. Bucky Bragg, a Ranger who Savage knew faced the gallows if he ever returned to Arkansas, rode up, slid from the saddle, and offered Savage the reins to his bay.
Savage grabbed the reins, and leaped into the saddle. “Find my .44,” he ordered, and spurred the bay. He put the reins in his mouth, clamped down on them with his teeth, reached across his stomach, and jerked the revolver from the left-side holster. Wickes was still out of range, and about three of the Rangers pursuing the dying man were in Savage’s line of fire. Savage pulled the trigger anyway.
The brown gelding turned northwest. The Rangers pursued—except Doc Shaw, who reined up as Savage galloped past him. Savage looked back. The wind whipped his hat off his head. Shaw was pulling a rifle from its scabbard.
Savage jerked the reins out of his mouth. “Kill the horse!” Savage yelled back to Shaw. “Or kill the man. Just stop him.” He turned back, leaned forward, urging the bay to run faster by pounding its hindquarters with the .44’s barrel. He wasn’t making up much ground. If anything, that damned brown horse seemed to be lengthening the distance.
Likely, Doc Shaw was the only chance Savage had of stopping Wickes. Oh, Wickes was dead. Of that, Savage had no doubt. A man with a bullet in his gut would die hard, but if Wickes happened to run into somebody, tell what had happened, well, that might end all of Savage’s plans, his dreams, his empire.
Savage chanced a look behind him. Doc Shaw had dropped the reins to his horse, was kneeling, the rifle in his arms.
Shaw’s weapon was brand-spanking new. John M. Browning had mailed a copy of his latest design to the Texas Rangers, and Colonel Thomas had shipped it down to Fort Leaton with the great state of Texas’s appreciation. Savage had, in turn, given it to Doc Shaw, the best rifle shot in Company E. It was a Winchester High Wall, a single shot in .45-120 caliber, thirty-inch octagon-barrel with straight grip, an unbelievably strong falling block action, and tremendous range. Doc Shaw had taken the long brass telescope that had been on his old .45-70 Remington Rolling Block, and put it on his new toy. He had sighted in that rifle, too, and dropped a horse thief from his saddle at six hundred yards. Savage guessed that Wickes was a good eight hundred yards from Shaw.
He heard the muffled report of the Winchester. Looked. Wickes and the brown never broke stride. Savage swore. Doc Shaw had missed.
Yet almost as soon as the curse had left Savage’s lips, Ray Wickes slipped from the saddle, and fell into the dust. The brown kept running, but Savage didn’t care.
By the time Savage reached the others, they had rolled Ray Wickes’s dead body on the ground, marveling at the bullet hole that had hit Wickes in his temple and blown out the left side of his head. One Ranger pocketed the dead man’s watch. Another removed the badge and tossed the star up to Savage, who caught it, slid it into his pocket beside the crucifix he had taken off the Rurale lieutenant a few days ago.
“Doc Shaw sure can shoot,” Ranger Eliot Thompson said.
“He can,” Savage agreed.
“What about the horse?” Ranger Joe Newton asked.
“Let it go. Horse can’t talk. We’ve spent enough time here. We need to get to Marathon. See to that whore. Let’s ride back. Pick up Bucky and Demitrio, my hat, my horse, and my other .44.”
“Should we bury him?” Thompson pointed at the corpse.
“Wolves and ravens will take care of Lieutenant Wickes,” Savage said. He turned the bay around, and loped away.
CHAPTER TEN
The chain bit into Dave Chance’s neck, drawing blood. His brain screamed for air, but Moses Albavera appeared to be getting stronger, not weaker, despite the fact that Chance’s left hand gripped the black man’s throat like a vise. He struggled to free his right hand, but Albavera’s knee wouldn’t budge. Chance kept his left hand locked just beneath Albavera’s Adam’s apple, and managed to turn his head, feeling the rugged chain rip deeper into his flesh.
He was closer to the fire than he realized. The coffeepot sat on the rock. He wondered . . . could he reach it?
Immediately, he released his gr
ip on Albavera’s throat. The black man seemed surprised, but instinctively took a deep breath, relaxing his grip just a bit. Chance’s arm shot out, grabbed the enamel pot. Once blue, burned black from years of use, the pot was scalding. It burned his fingers, his palm, but Chance didn’t care. He lifted the pot, and flung it.
Albavera let out a savage oath, but didn’t scream, ducking as the hot coffee splashed against his shoulder and neck. He fell off. Chance barely heard the clanging of the manacles, the pot clanging on the dirt. He was too busy filling his lungs with oxygen. He tried to lift the Schofield, but his right hand wouldn’t work, numbed from the pressure of Albavera’s knee. Chance grabbed the .45 with his left hand, and brought the revolver up.
Albavera had stumbled and was sitting up, his back against a lava boulder. He reached for something and stood.
Chance cocked the Schofield and aimed as best he could, though he had never been much good at shooting left-handed. He pulled the trigger. The .45 bucked savagely in his hand.
In the close confines of their boulder den, the pistol’s report sounded like a cannon, causing Chance’s ears to ring painfully. Yet he heard the whine of the bullet ricocheting, and felt the slug sail over his head, barely missing him. Through the smoke, he saw the bullet had knocked Albavera back on his haunches, slamming something black against the boulder to the prisoner’s right.
The cast iron frying pan.
Albavera had lifted the heavy skillet, used it as a shield, and saved his life. The Schofield’s bullet had slammed into the center of the pan, ricocheted off—damned near killing Chance in the process—knocking the skillet out of Albavera’s hand, landing him back on his butt.
Flexing the fingers on his right hand, Chance felt the blood flowing down his throat and neck, but his hand remained asleep. He tried cocking the Schofield with his left hand. Albavera was on his feet, running toward the horses. Chance aimed, but held his fire, not wanting to hit the horses, which were stomping and rearing.
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