“Stop!” Chance’s voice sounded muffled by the ringing in his ears, like it was coming from within a deep well. He took a step.
He had removed saddles and blankets from both mounts, but had left the bridles on. He hadn’t bothered hobbling the horses, figuring they might need to vamoose pretty damned quick if Don Melitón’s men found them. He’d considered keeping the horses saddled, but decided they didn’t need to stand around all night with that extra weight. Those saddles weighed close to forty pounds apiece. As Albavera grabbed the reins to the Andalusian, Chance wished he had hobbled the sorrel and the stallion, or at least haltered them.
Albavera flew onto the back of the gray Andalusian with ease, yelling something. Chance couldn’t make out what he said, but the horse turned, and leaped over the saddles. The black man looked like he had been born on horseback. With a grimace on his face, he leaned over the horse’s side, Indian style, to keep Chance from hitting him. Guessing, Chance figured, that a man like him wouldn’t want to shoot a horse.
He didn’t—not kill nor wound a horse like that.
But he would.
Yet as Albavera leaned, his hat, miraculously still on his head, flew off. Chance looked surprised, but not as stunned as Albavera, who, instead of leaning onto the stallion’s side, pitched off, and fell into the dirt. As the Andalusian loped away, past Chance, he heard the shot.
The second round carved a furrow across Chance’s left side. He dived back toward the fire, landing hard, saw the Andalusian split two riders loping into the little canyon levering fresh rounds into their Winchesters as they rode. Vaqueros. Don Melitón’s men. But only two of them.
He could feel his right hand again, and quickly changed hands holding the Schofield. Cocking it with his left hand, he rose to his knee. One of the riders wheeled his horse, and dropped the reins. Smoke and flame belched from the Winchester, the bullet tugging at Chance’s collar. Chance squeezed the trigger, dived to his left, and came up ready to fire again.
The horse, a palomino, loped out of the maze of lava rocks. The vaquero lay spread-eagle on the ground, a Winchester at his boots, something by his head. The skillet.
Another shot boomed. Chance ran in a crouch, stopped, and dived out of the way of another running horse, also riderless. Stepping out of the dust, he aimed the Schofield at Moses Albavera.
The black man stood behind the saddles, the sawed-off Springfield rifle in his hands, smoke serpentining out of the short barrel. A few rods in front of the saddles lay the other vaquero, his head a gory mess. Behind Albavera stood the sorrel, sidestepping, snorting, but not running.
Spotting Chance, Albavera straightened, and glanced down at the rifle in his hands.
“You’re empty,” Chance said, not lowering the Schofield.
“Don’t I know it.”
Both men sounded terribly hoarse.
Albavera dropped the rifle onto the saddlebags, leaned against a boulder, and started massaging his throat. Chance walked slowly, pressing his left hand against his bloody side. His throat felt raw, pained, as if he had swallowed a ton of torrid sand. His eyes burned. He didn’t bother a glance at the dead vaquero. He wasn’t about to take his eyes off a man like Moses Albavera. He had made that mistake too many times already.
The black man lowered his hand from his throat with a smile. “Where’d you get a grip like that?”
When Chance didn’t answer, Albavera spoke again. “You damn near crushed my windpipe.”
“I swung a sixteen-pound sledgehammer for the Texas and Pacific for six years,” Chance said. He remembered that too well. Swinging that sledge in the heat of July, laying track from Longview to Dallas. He’d felt like a kid when he started. Hell, he had been a kid, but he built a lot of muscle over those years. Figured he’d lay track all the way to San Diego. That was the T&P’s plan, to build a transcontinental railroad in the south, but the railroad never got out of Texas. Back in ’81, T&P crews had met the Southern Pacific in Sierra Blanca, about a hundred or so miles east of El Paso. By then, Chance had left the railroad and was riding for the Texas Rangers. Course, it had been the T&P that had gotten him the job with Captain Savage.
“How far will that Andalusian of yours run?” Chance asked.
“He’s stopped.” Albavera pointed. “Already loping back.”
Chance kept his eyes on the black man, but he heard the hooves of a horse.
“All right,” Chance said. “I’ll saddle the horses. You bury those two men.”
“Bury them? With what?”
“Your hands.”
Albavera shook his head. “They wouldn’t have buried us.”
Chance didn’t reply.
“Well, what happens after I bury those two?”
“We’ll ride out.”
“What about supper?”
“You threw supper away. You want to pick up those pieces of salt pork, go ahead.”
“Horses will be worn out.”
“I imagine they will be. But”—he gestured at the closest dead man—“I don’t want to get trapped here by Don Melitón.”
Albavera shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Those dead vaqueros say different.”
“Those aren’t vaqueros, Sergeant Chance.”
The Andalusian trotted right on past Chance, and walked straight to Albavera, nuzzling his chest, pushing him back. He laughed, grabbed the bridle, and rubbed his hand on the gray’s neck. “See for yourself,” the black man said.
Chance risked it. The rider was a Mexican, all right, with a huge sugarloaf sombrero, the brim splattered with blood. He couldn’t recognize the face, wouldn’t have even been able to call it a face, not after the impact of that .45-70 slug. Chance moved closer, keeping Albavera is his sights, and knelt beside the dead man.
It wasn’t one of Don Melitón’s riders. He remembered the don’s vaqueros had been armed with Spencers; the dead men carried Winchesters. Chance studied the man closer. He wore gray britches, Apache moccasins, and a canvas jacket over a muslin shirt. A dagger was sheathed in a yellow sash, two bandoliers of .44-40 cartridges were strapped over his chest, and a couple of gory scalps were affixed to the bandoliers. Probably Apache hair.
Tugging at the man’s jacket, Chance pulled a leather pouch from the inside pocket, and dumped it onto the ground between the dead man’s legs. A rosary. A few pesos. A rabbit’s foot. And a half dozen Morgan dollars. He picked up one of the silver coins, hardly a scratch on any of them, and checked the date. Freshly minted. Undoubtedly stolen. He gathered the dollars, slipped them into his vest pocket. Something else was stuck in the sash. Chance pulled out a pewter flask. Liquid sloshed inside, and he unscrewed the lid, sniffed.
Tequila.
He closed the lid, and shoved the flask into his waistband.
Carefully, rapidly, Chance looked over at the man he had killed, saw the sinking sunlight reflecting off the conchos that lined the sides of his calzoneras. That’s what had made Chance mistake him for a vaquero. That and the Mexican saddle and old sombrero. But he also had a bandolier, although his was strapped across his waist, and he wore the gray jacket of one of Porfirio Díaz’s Rural Guards.
“Rurales,” Chance said, rising. “What are two Rurales doing this far north of the border?”
Albavera stepped from behind the gray stallion. “Not Rurales. Likely bandits in Rurale uniforms.”
“Most of the Rurales I’ve run across are bandits.”
“Spoken like a true Texan.” Albavera laughed.
Chance ran his finger over his jacket, and found the bullet hole in the collar. “We match.”
“Not quite,” Albavera said. “Prince Benton’s bullet went through my left collar, not right. Besides, my coat’s a lot more expensive than that rat-chewed mackinaw of yours.”
“Why do you think they hit us?”
“Heard our ruction, most likely. Figured we’d make easy pickings. You want some water?” He picked up a canteen. “Yeah.” Chance holste
red the revolver, and stepped toward Albavera.
“So, how’d you go from swinging a sixteen-pound sledgehammer to wearing a peso star?” Albavera asked after Chance had taken a long pull from the canteen. As he asked he noticed a few things about the Ranger:
1. Chance kept his right hand on the butt of the Schofield revolver holstered high on his hip.
2. He kept his distance from Albavera, and never took his eyes off him. Rarely even blinked.
3. His throat and the side of his neck were raw, bleeding, from where Albavera had tried to choke him to death, and his side was bleeding from a bullet wound, but the Ranger didn’t seem in any pain. Unlike Albavera, whose hands still rang from having that skillet shot out of his hands, and whose throat felt raw. It had hurt just to swallow the mouthful of water from the canteen. Of course, he wasn’t about to admit any of that.
4. The white Ranger didn’t wipe the spout of the canteen after Albavera, a black man, had drunk from it.
The latter impressed him the most. Maybe Chance was too damned tired. Or maybe . . . oh, yeah. Albavera grinned. Chance would have had to take his right hand off that .45’s butt to wipe the canteen.
“Ever hear of the Constantine gang?” Chance asked.
“Can’t say I have.”
“They were a band of brothers along the Arkansas-Texas border. Three of them. They tried to rob a Texas and Pacific that was bound to Texarkana.”
Albavera grinned again. He took the canteen back, but before he drank, he said, “And you just happened to be on board.”
Chance nodded. “Work detail. I was in the smoking car. Playing poker with the boys.”
“When it was all said and done, the Constantine gang was no more. That it?”
“Something like that. I shot Will dead. Put a bullet in Greg’s shoulder. He lived long enough to hang. Mickey McGee, an Irishman I worked with, crushed Robert’s head with a sledgehammer before Robert could shoot me.”
“All that . . . just to protect the railroad?” Albavera drank.
“Railroad hell,” Chance said. “Those bastards aimed to rob us.”
He caught the canteen when Albavera pitched it back to him. Used both hands. Albavera figured he had missed his best shot to try that Ranger, but, hell, he was too tired anyway. Chance drank again, and once more he didn’t wipe the canteen. He shook the canteen, then poured some onto his hand, patted down the scrapes on his neck, wincing, and at last poured some onto his side. That must have burned like a branding iron.
“You all right?” Albavera asked.
“Just a scratch.”
“Oh, I’d think it’s deeper than a scratch, Ranger.” He reached into his vest, and pulled out a silk handkerchief. “Here. You best draw this through it. You could disinfect that wound with some of the whiskey in that flask.” He pointed at the pewter container.
“It’s tequila,” Chance said. He pulled the flask from his waist, opened it, and poured enough to wet the handkerchief.
“Here.” Albavera rose. Chance had the Schofield halfway out of the holster, but the black man didn’t seem to notice it. He took the handkerchief in his left hand, shoved the tail of the mackinaw aside, pushed up Chance’s vest and shirt, and placed the tequila-sodded piece of silk against the dark line seeping blood.
“Son of a bitch!” Chance bellowed. His boots tapped out a little dance.
Albavera chuckled. He stepped back, dropping his manacled hands.
Chance still held the flask. He pushed the Schofield back into his holster, lifted the container, took a pull, swallowed, and tossed the flask to Albavera, who finished off the liquor.
“Guess I should get to burying those two banditos,” Albavera said, and walked to the one he had killed.
Behind him, he heard Chance say, “I’ll help you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A rooster crowed. A dog barked. The sun broke free of clouds hanging low in the eastern horizon, bathing the riders in warming beams as Hec Savage and his Rangers made their way down what passed for a main street in the ramshackle village of Marathon. They rode straight to the tent saloon, the canvas flapping in the wind. The entrance was tied shut, the saloon empty.
Hec Savage nodded at Doc Shaw, who eased from his saddle, wrapping the reins around the hitching rail, which he ducked underneath. Shaw pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, unfolded the blade, and sliced through the canvas ties, although it would have been just as easy to untie them. He slipped inside the saloon. A moment later, he reappeared, shaking his head.
Savage had expected as much.
He turned his horse, and headed toward the Iron Mountain Inn. A blue roan stood in front of the two-story structure, lathered with sweat, ground-reined, shotgun in the scabbard, about half a dozen quail hanging from a string wrapped over the scattergun’s stock. As Savage pulled up his mount, a man stepped out of the front door, pulled off a bowler, and wiped sweat from his brow. It was too damned cold to be sweating.
The man came to a stop when he saw the Rangers.
“Morning, Horatius.” Savage gripped the saddle horn, and leaned forward, kicking his boots free of the stirrup, stretching his legs. He smiled.
“Captain.” The old barkeep sounded nervous.
Behind Savage, the other Rangers reined up their mounts.
Savage jerked his thumb toward the quail hanging from the roan. “Pretty good hunting for this time of year. Thought I heard some shots.” He tilted his head toward the eastern clouds. “But the boys said it was likely thunder. Reckon they were wrong.”
The barkeep set his bowler back atop his head. Shuffled his feet. Stared past Savage at the Rangers behind him.
“Where’s the whore?” Savage straightened in his saddle.
“What whore?” The beer-jerker had found his voice. Nervous, but at least he had spoken.
“You know damned well who I mean, Horatius.” He pushed back his coattail, and rested his right hand on the butt of the nearest .44. “The one from Terlingua. Linda Kincaid. The one I ordered that son-of-a-bitching Ray Wickes to put on the eastbound Southern Pacific. The one your boss took from my men.”
“I don’t know—”
“You do know, mister. Don’t play me for a fool. You saw our dust, and lit a shuck for here. Look at how lathered your horse is, how sweaty you are. You rode right here to warn that—”
Suddenly looking past Horatius, Savage brought his right hand off the Merwin Hulbert to the brim of his hat, which he swept off his head, and bowed slightly as Grace Profit stepped onto the warped boardwalk that ran in front of the hotel. She kept her left hand tight against the top of the range coat she had slipped on over her chemise. Her legs and feet were bare.
“Morning, Grace.” Savage returned his hat, grinning.
“Captain Savage,” she said.
“You’re up early,” he said.
She shrugged. “You and your boys were loud enough to wake the dead. If you and the boys are thirsty, I’ll have Horatius open up the saloon.”
The barkeep started down the boardwalk, but stopped when Savage barked out, “Not yet.”
The captain’s hand returned to the revolver’s butt.
“I’ll take Linda Kincaid, Grace,” he said.
“She’s gone.” Her eyes, normally a rich, deep blue, looked pale, cold, hard. And bloodshot.
Savage grinned.
“We put her on the westbound,” Grace said.
“Then you don’t mind us searching your room.”
The words weren’t out of Savage’s mouth when two men slid from their saddles, and barged past Grace, a blond-mustached man shoving her aside so hard, Grace had to let go of the coat and grip a wooden column to keep from falling down.
“Cutter!” Savage shouted.
The blond Ranger turned in the doorway.
“Apologize to the lady, Cutter.”
Cutter swept his battered porkpie hat off his head. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said before heading inside.
Savage shook his head. “Sorry,
Grace. It’s hard to get good men anymore.”
She pulled the range coat back over her chemise, her lips tight, wanting to say something, yet not daring to.
Savage passed the time by reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out the cross he had taken off the Rurale. He admired it for a moment, then shoved it back, and came out with his sack of Bull Durham. He kept his eyes on Grace as he spread the flakes onto the paper, and deftly rolled the cigarette, licking it, sticking it in his mouth, finding a lucifer and striking it against the revolver’s butt.
From inside came the chimes of spurs and pounding of boots on stairs. A moment later, Taw Cutter and Joe Newton stepped back onto the boardwalk. Cutter held a blanket in his arms.
“She wasn’t up there, Captain,” Newton said, “but somebody had been sleeping on her sofa.” Cutter held up the blanket.
“That would be me,” Grace said.
“Bed had been slept in, too.”
“So I got up to read, got comfortable on the sofa, pulled up a blanket. You know how I love to read, Hec.”
“You’re the best-read woman between Austin and Tucson, I warrant.” Savage pulled deeply on the cigarette.
“Yeah.” Cutter dropped the blanket at his feet, and held up a badly torn, bloodstained dress. “But I also found this in her trash can.”
Savage flicked the cigarette toward Grace. “What about that, Grace?” he asked.
“What of it? You know that woman was here. I never denied that. I gave her one of my dresses, took that filth off her. Which is more than you did, Hec Savage.” She looked past him. “More than any of you bastards thought to do.”
Joe Newton dropped his eyes. Even Savage’s shoulders slouched. Only Taw Cutter chuckled.
“I asked my maid to . . .” Savage shook his head. “Hell, it don’t matter. Where is she, Grace?”
“I told you. I put her on the westbound.”
He smiled a cold, chilling smile, and shook his head. “No, Grace.” He tilted his head toward the rising sun. “See that black smoke off in the distance. That’s the westbound. Making good time. Lieutenant Wickes told me he put the boys, living and dead, on the eastbound yesterday at noon. Then he left that whore with you. Westbound ain’t due until today, and there she is. Right on time, for once.” Shaking his head, he let out a sigh. “You used to be a much better liar, Grace.”
West Texas Kill Page 9
