Coming up from the road that led to Presidio loped six riders.
“They’re not Mexican,” Albavera said.
“They’re Rangers,” Chance said. He turned to the priest, handing him a few coins. “Padre, sorry, but we can’t stay for the funeral. Like I said, Ray Wickes was Catholic, a good man, loyal to Texas, and died in the line of duty. Say something like that.” He turned to Albavera. “Let’s go.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
As they walked down the rocky path from the church, Albavera snapped his fingers. “You knew they’d come back.”
Chance didn’t answer.
Shaking his head, Albavera went on talking. “I tried to figure out why we were digging this grave. You could have paid the padre or some peons to do it. We could have been riding east, to deliver me to the authorities in Galveston, or riding south, to find that whore, find your Captain Savage. Instead, we spent most of the morning digging a grave. At first, I figured you’re just too damned cheap to pay for a grave, or the state of Texas is too cheap. But, no, that wasn’t it. We were here waiting.”
Chance shifted the Winchester Centennial under his armpit. Actually, he hadn’t minded digging the grave. It gave him time to think, sort things out, figure out what the hell was going on. And it reminded him of those years swinging a sledge for the railroad.
“How’d you know they’d come back?” Albavera asked.
They had reached the flats, and started walking toward the empty lot where the railroaders had once pitched their tents before Savage had sent them packing off to Murphyville.
“Savage couldn’t afford to leave Grace behind,” Chance answered at last.
“So what do you plan on doing?”
Chance levered a round into the heavy rifle. He kept on walking.
“You are seriously loco, Ranger Chance.”
They rounded the corner. Six horses stood in front of the Iron Mountain Inn. Two riders remained in the saddles. Another stood in the shade, leaning against the wall near the front door. All three put their hands on the butts of their revolvers, but just watched as Chance and Albavera made their way down the dusty, practically deserted street.
“Hello, Sergeant.” One of the mounted Rangers smiled. He didn’t take his hand away from the revolver.
“Cutter,” Chance said, stopping at the edge of the boardwalk. He nodded at the other Ranger on horseback. “Joe.” Climbing onto the boardwalk, he greeted Bucky Bragg, who had pushed back that big sugarloaf sombrero he wore. He had taken it off a dead Mexican bandit he had killed two years back.
“Who’s your prisoner?” Joe Newton called from his horse.
“Moses Albavera.”
“Ain’t he the one that killed Prince Benton?” Taw Cutter asked.
“And Chet and Joe Marin in Galveston,” Moses Albavera answered. “And Bill Carter at the Bad Springs Saloon in Fort Stockton.”
“Bad Water Saloon,” Chance corrected. He kept the barrel of the Winchester pointed at the ground, but his finger remained inside the trigger guard, his thumb on the cocked hammer. “Captain Savage inside?”
“He is.” Bragg pulled open the door.
At a square table in the middle of the hotel’s parlor, Captain Hec Savage sat in a rocking chair, head bent. His hat rested crown down beside his right arm on the roughhewn table, next to one of his Merwin Hulbert .44’s. He was scribbling furiously on a piece of stationery. A cigarette burned in a nearby ashtray. Across from him sat Grace Profit, who turned and watched as Moses Albavera and Dave Chance came inside. The door slammed shut after them, and Savage looked up, smiling.
On the second-story landing stood Doc Shaw, the High Wall rifle cradled in his arms. Behind the registration desk waited Eliot Thompson, who was carving off tobacco from a plug of Star Navy with a folding knife. Chance positioned himself between the door and the front window, directly in line with Hec Savage, but out of view of any Rangers out front.
Lowering the pencil, Savage reached for the cigarette, took a long pull, then blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Hello, Sergeant,” he said after a moment. “I see you caught your man.”
“I did.”
“Don Melitón didn’t give you any trouble?”
“None to speak of. He might come after you, though. Killing two of his men.”
“A regrettable incident.” Savage crushed out the smoke in the ash tray. “But I think the old man will be hunting you before he comes after me.” He looked at the prisoner, sizing him up, nodding. “So you’re Moses Albavera.”
“That’s right.”
“Moorish?”
“That’s right.”
Savage returned to the note he was writing, on his third page now. “You can’t wait for the train here, Sergeant. Don Melitón might return. I don’t hold out much hope that those railroaders I sent to Murphyville will keep quiet about what happened here. You should proceed to Strawbridge—Sanderson, I mean. All these towns changing their names because of the railroad confuses me. Travel to Sanderson. Wait for the Southern Pacific there. I don’t think Don Melitón will think you’d ride that far. You will board the eastbound train when it arrives, and deliver your prisoner to the authorities in Galveston.”
Sanderson was a little less than sixty miles due east of Marathon. It had the reputation of a wild railroad town, with no law.
“Is that an order, Captain?” Chance asked.
Savage’s hand moved wildly as he signed his name. “It is, Sergeant. I have another important duty for you, too.” He kept writing. Four pages now.
Chance studied Doc Shaw and Eliot Thompson, then looked briefly at Grace.
“Where’s Demitrio Ahern?”
“Back at Fort Leaton,” Savage answered. “I left him with four men at our headquarters. Mainly to keep an eye out for Juan Lo Grande.”
“And Linda Kincaid?”
Setting the pencil aside, the captain pushed back his chair, tilted it on its back legs, and rocked a moment, considering his sergeant. “O’Brien and the others returned her to Fort Leaton. To keep her safe. She’s what we call a material witness.”
“Wouldn’t she have been safer in Austin or Houston?”
Savage nodded. “She didn’t want to go. Isn’t that right, Grace?”
Grace’s head bobbed slightly.
Chance asked, “You’ll be taking Grace, too?”
“It’s for her own good, Sergeant.” He looked at the last page he had written, then folded the papers together, and held them in his left hand between his forefinger and middle finger. “Before you deliver your prisoner, Sergeant, you shall take this message personally to Colonel Thomas in Austin. That’s an order, Sergeant Chance.”
“Is that your resignation or confession?” Chance asked.
Savage shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He flung the letter to the edge of the table.
“My demands, Sergeant,” he said, regaining his composure, smiling again. “I guess you could call this our articles of secession. The boys and I have decided to form our own province out here.”
“Savage, Texas.” Eliot Thompson laughed.
“No, not Texas. Not anymore. It’s the kingdom of Savage,” Doc Shaw hailed down from the balustrade.
Grace eyed the captain with a look of bewilderment. Moses Albavera blinked, then tried something. “Captain, this new country you’re founding. Would you have any use for a good man like me?”
“No niggers allowed in Savage,” Eliot Thompson said, and spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice that missed the cuspidor and splattered on the wooden floor.
“If you’re so good, how come your hands are cuffed?” Savage asked.
Grinning, Albavera shrugged.
“Grace,” Savage said, “let’s take our leave.”
“She stays,” Chance said.
“That I’m afraid she can’t do, Sergeant.” Savage put on his hat, and reached for the .44, keeping his eyes trained on Chance as he slowly picked up the revolver,
and slid it into the holster on his right hip. “She’s a material witness, too. And, as you well know having just dug a new grave, Marathon is not safe for anyone these days.”
“That’s what I want to know, Captain,” Chance said. “Which one of you killed Ray Wickes?”
A long silence filled the hotel lobby. Finally, Savage shook his head, and let out a little chuckle. “Well, Dave, I guess Doc Shaw and I both had a hand in it. I shot him first. Doc finished him. But you knew that already, didn’t you, Sergeant?”
“I just wanted to hear you say it,” Chance said tightly.
“I’ve said it. Anything else you want to know?”
“Yeah. Hamp Magruder and young Wes Smith. Who killed them?”
“I shot Magruder,” Savage answered. “Doc killed Smith. Now here’s a question for you, Sergeant. Which one of us will kill you?”
“You won’t ever know, Captain, because you’ll be dead before I hit the ground.”
Savage looked down. “Floor, Dave. Not ground. I’ll be dead before you hit the floor. This hotel is pretty fancy, for Marathon.” He looked up, smiling. “But not today, Sergeant.” The captain rose, walked around the table, pulled Grace Profit gently to her feet. “You don’t want Grace to get hurt, and if I don’t return to Fort Leaton, the whore from Terlingua dies. Besides, you wouldn’t kill me. You owe me, Dave. Or have you forgotten Fort Stockton?”
Chance fell quiet.
Grace looked at him, felt Savage’s hand squeeze her shoulder. “It’s all right, Dave,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Captain Savage believes in the sanctity of womanhood.”
“That’s right.” He shoved her forward, and followed her closely, picking up the note on the table’s edge as he walked by. The door opened, and Grace walked outside. Savage stopped and held out the note.
“It’s delivered to Austin. You catch the train in Sanderson. Savvy?”
Reluctantly, Chance took the note. “That’s the way you want it.”
“No, Dave, not really. I wanted you and Ray Wickes escorting Smith and Magruder, and Miss Kincaid, on the eastbound. That’s what I wanted. But Ray was stupid, and the whore got cold feet. And you”—he shook his head—“were always just too damned dedicated to this job. Had to go off after that . . . Moor. I didn’t want to see you hurt, Dave. Damned sure didn’t want to see you dead. Take the train. Hand the note personally to Colonel Thomas. Hell, you’ll probably get invited to discuss my demands with Governor Ireland, too. And don’t come back, Dave. Don’t make me kill you.”
Savage backed out, and off the boardwalk, grabbed the reins to his gray, and swung into the saddle. Chance watched Bucky Bragg help Grace Profit into the saddle of his horse, then Bragg mounted the Andalusian. Quickly, Chance looked at the round corral where he had left their horses. Sure enough, the sorrel and Wickes’s brown were still grazing. Hearing the footsteps, Chance stepped aside to let Doc Shaw and Eliot Thompson walk out and mount their horses.
Slowly, Chance eased down the hammer on the Winchester Centennial.
“Just follow your orders, Sergeant.” Savage tipped his hat, then raked his spurs over the gray, and led the Rangers and Grace Profit down the main street, turning south, kicking up clouds of dust.
“That low-dealing bastard.” Moses Albavera pushed his way past Chance and stepped off the boardwalk, raising clenched fists in his manacled hands, shaking them at the dust the wind was blowing away. “You son of a bitch! You swine!” He whirled, ripped off his hat, and slammed it onto the warped boards. “Sergeant Chance, I want to swear out a complaint. Your high and mighty Texas Rangers just stole my damned horse.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Whereas we, the undersigned men of Company E, Frontier Battalion, Texas Rangers, having risked our lives innumerable times for better than a decade, and having been ignored, mistreated, and maligned by the stupidity of our duly elected leaders and commanding officers in Austin, having been underpaid, shot at, wounded, and having been forced to bury our dead, having been abused by the damned Mexicans that dominate this territory, below and above the Rio Grande, we hereby declare that the encroachments of Mexican banditti and Austin politics make us fully justified in withdrawing from the state of Texas and forming our own union, appropriately named Savage, effective immediately.
Whenever any form of government becomes destructive of the ends for which it was established, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government.
Thus said your country’s founding fathers. Thus says Captain Hector M. Savage, captain, Company E, commanding, hereby known as President Savage, the first commander in chief of our new province.
The newly christened empire of Savage shall be defined as being the land currently west of the Pecos River in what has been heretofore called the state of Texas to the current boundary with New Mexico Territory to the north and the current boundary with the nation, loosely defined, of Mexico to the south, bordered there by the Rio Grande Del Norte, following the course of said river to approximately 10 miles northwest near the village of Pilares in Chihuahua, Mexico, proceeding thereupon at a north by northeast direction through Van Horn’s Well and Hurd’s Pass, proceeding east of the Salt Lakes region until it intersects with the Pecos River again at the border of New Mexico Territory.
To wit: the current counties in the state of Texas known as Reeves, Pecos, and Presidio.
This new country of Savage is open to trade with the state of Texas and the countries of Mexico and the United States of America. The railroads running through this country called Savage may continue to do so unimpeded pending a security deposit of $100,000, which can be delivered to President Hector M. Savage at Fort Leaton, outside of Presidio, which will serve as our new nation’s capital. Stagecoach travel may also continue without delay, pending a security deposit in the amount of $25,000, which can be delivered to President Hector M. Savage at Fort Leaton, outside of Presidio, capital of Savage. The military commanders at the United States Army outposts of Fort Stockton and Fort Davis are ordered to lower their flags and withdraw all military personnel east across the Pecos River into Texas or west across the Reeves and Presidio county lines and into the current Texas county of El Paso. The State of Texas must also pay Savage $200,000 because we say so. It is right, and a fair—below fair, actually—price to pay for all we have been through since being assigned to this country in 1874.
Failure to make these payments in a timely manner will lead to the deaths of hostages being held at Fort Leaton. These hostages include Leonard J. Childress, mayor of Sanderson, Texas; Leviticus Hendry, state representative and barber from Presidio, Texas; Father Miguel de la Vega, priest at the Our Lady Of Guadalupe Catholic Church in Presidio, Texas; Linda Kincaid, whore from Terlingua, Texas; Nelson J. Bookbinder, captain, and three of his enlisted men, troopers Sam Jennison, Ricardo Milano and Hans Kruger, 3rd United States Cavalry, formerly stationed at Fort Davis but captured by Company E, Texas Rangers at La Mota Mountain; and Grace Profit, formerly a saloon owner in the town of Marathon, Texas.
Acceptance of these demands, as well as a deposit of ten percent of the aforementioned duties payable from the Southern Pacific, Wells Fargo Company and other stagecoach companies, and the state of Texas, should be sent to President Hector M. Savage at Fort Leaton, capital of Savage, no later than the seventeenth hour of Sunday, the twenty-ninth of November, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen and Eighty-five.
Justly affirmed,
Hector M. Savage
Jasper J. “Doc” Shaw
Bucky Bragg
Taw Cutter
Eliot Thompson
Joe Newton
Tom O’Brien
Demitrio Ahern
Oliver Drago
Steve Coffman
Bill Barr
P.G. Foner
J. K. Scheidner
Harry Jones
Munge McSween
All of the signatures were in Hec Savage’s handwriting.
After rereading the note,
making sure he understood everything Savage had written, had ordered, Chance handed the papers to Albavera. As the black man began reading, sniggering and shaking his head, Chance stepped onto the street, and made a beeline for the corral, ignoring the mercantile owner, Rodney Kipperman, who kept asking, “What’s going on here, Ranger?”
Once he had leaned the Winchester against the post, Chance ducked underneath the rails, grabbed his bridle, and caught up the sorrel. The mercantile owner gave up, let out a sign of exasperation, and went inside his store.
Silently, Chance slipped the headstall onto the gelding, and led the horse to the gate, then threw on blanket and saddle. He was cinching up the saddle when Moses Albavera entered the corral.
“Your captain is crazy as a loon.” Albavera shook his head. “Secession. That went over really good the last time you stupid white-ass Southerners tried it. Christ Almighty. What was that his man told me? ‘No niggers allowed in Savage’? I suppose they’ll kick all the Mexicans out of this new kingdom, too. They’re all insane.”
“The captain’s a lot of things”—Chance pulled on the horn, satisfied, and stepped away from the sorrel—“but crazy isn’t one of them.”
West Texas Kill Page 13
