West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “He ride in alone?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is there a back door to this place?”

  “No.” Sack Suit shook his head. “But there’s a window.” He pointed.

  “That’ll do.” Albavera kept away from the front window, turned down the lantern hanging from the ceiling, and went to the back wall. He pushed open the window, and started to step through it, pausing long enough to look over at the shadowy silhouettes of White Beard and Sack Suit.

  “Oh, I’d stay inside if I were you. Away from the window. Probably on the floor. Maybe behind that desk—until the shooting stops.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A half moon crept from behind a thin veil of clouds as Albavera slid against the back wall of the picket-walled depot. Gun in hand, he peered around the corner, saw nothing but shadows and boxes, and kept hugging the wall, easing toward the front of the depot. The banjo he heard was out of tune. Off to the west, a coyote cried out in accompaniment, answered by a cacophony of howls.

  He had reached the edge of the building. Slowly, he stepped away, staying in the shadows, and looked around the corner.

  Except for the saloons, most businesses across the street were closed, although a light drifted through the drapes hanging across the window in the adobe café. The aroma of strong coffee and baked bread reminded Albavera that he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He looked up and down the main road—hell, the only road—that ran through Sanderson, then focused on one saloon. He found his horse. Well, he was fairly certain that was his Andalusian, or rather the stallion he had stolen at Fort Stockton, tethered between a mule and what appeared to be a palomino.

  The moon disappeared.

  A shadow stood in the doorway to that saloon, the tip of a cigarette glowing red, then fading, glowing, fading. The figure kept his hands on the top of the batwing doors, staring out into the darkness, his head never turning. He was looking at the depot. Waiting. Wondering.

  The hinges of the door squeaked, and the man stepped onto the dirt, the doors swinging behind him. In the darkness, Albavera couldn’t make out the man’s features, but he could determine the shape and size of the hat on the man’s head. A sugarloaf sombrero. Albavera remembered him. One of those Rangers who had been outside the Iron Mountain Inn with Captain Savage. The bastard who had stolen Albavera’s horse.

  The cigarette glowed again, then darkened. Sparks flew and disappeared a few rods past the horses as the man began walking toward the depot. Apparently, he had flipped away the cigarette. As he drew closer, the light from the lanterns outside the depot office reflected off the badge pinned to the man’s shirt.

  Albavera nodded, satisfied. Indeed it was that horsestealing Ranger. Good. He would have hated to have killed the wrong man.

  Spurs jingled as the man made his way to the tracks, crossed them, and climbed up onto the platform. He stood in the shadows. Smart fellow. He was playing it safe. A revolver clicked. Albavera raised his .32.

  The gunshot startled him, the muzzle flash blinding him for a moment. There was another gunshot, then a sudden darkness. Someone screamed. The banjo music ceased.

  Albavera saw only red and orange dots at first. He smelled smoke, and heard the crackling of wood. Shadows began doing eery dances on the station platform.

  He looked to his left. Flames crept up the picket walls, and he realized the man had shot the two lanterns, sending coal oil up and down the walls, the flames licking hungrily.

  The door swung open. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! It’s—” Sack Suit leaped outside, ducking the flames. Another muzzle flash and deafening roar sent Sack Suit slamming against the wall, sliding down into a pool of blood, his coat smoldering from the flames.

  The pistol roared again, shattering the window, but Albavera heard something else. Bracing his back against the wall, he turned, pointing the Smith & Wesson toward the rear. The moon reappeared, providing just enough light for Albavera to see the white beard, the hands raised high over his head. “Don’t shoot,” White Beard whispered.

  The voice at the front of the depot was louder. “Come on out of there!” The Ranger stepped into the light, still looking at the door to the depot, not the west side of the building.

  Albavera stepped around the corner. “I’m already out,” he said, and shot the Ranger in the stomach.

  The big man spun twice, but didn’t fall. Albavera was surprised to see him still standing. And raising the long-barreled Colt in his right hand.

  Albavera pulled the .32’s trigger twice, feeling the little gun buck slightly in his hand, wishing he had Miss Vickie with him instead of that toy gun. The man took two steps to his side, his pistol booming, tearing a hole into the plank floor at his feet. His thumb worked the hammer, pulling the trigger again, then he was falling into the shadows. He rolled on his side, back into the light, spitting out a final curse, and soiling his britches.

  Quickly, Albavera stepped toward the downed man. He looked across the street, saw shadows standing in front of the saloons, and that the light was out in the café. Shoving the empty Smith & Wesson in his coat pocket, he looked down at the dead Ranger, and pried the Colt out of his hand.

  A board squeaked.

  Turning, he saw White Beard, hands still held high over his head. Albavera looked over at the burning depot, and nodded at the dead man leaning against the wall in his sack suit. “Get him out of here. And best get a bucket brigade going if you want to save—”

  A bullet carved a furrow across his left side. Cringing, biting back pain, Albavera rolled off the depot platform. He heard a gunshot, and the pounding of hooves. He came to his knees, raised the Colt, eased back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Colt clicked.

  “Damn.” He saw another muzzle flash from down the street, heard the hooves, and knew the man was riding toward him. Albavera flung the empty revolver into the dirt, and raced across the tracks, then across the street, sprinting desperately for the horses in front of that saloon. The spectators, seeing what was happening, quickly ran into the saloons, diving behind the walls, screaming and cursing.

  A bullet tore off Albavera’s hat. The mule brayed. The palomino pulled free, breaking its reins, and loping off toward Marathon. Albavera dived the final few yards. A bullet shattered a plate glass window. The Andalusian reared, but didn’t run. The mule started kicking.

  Albavera found the saddlebags on the Andalusian. A bullet buzzed past his right ear. The rider reined up, aimed a Winchester, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  “¡Hijo de la puta!” came a curse. The rider hurled the rifle to the ground, and reached for a holstered pistol.

  Albavera shot him through the saddlebag, Miss Vickie blowing a hole through the leather, and a bigger one through the horseman. The man slammed hard onto the ground, his right foot hung up in the stirrup. The horse galloped west, dragging the dead man out of town.

  Drawing a deep breath, Albavera pulled his hand out of the saddlebag, unfastened it, and withdrew the smoking sawed-off Springfield rifle, Miss Vickie. He pressed his hand against his bloody side, glanced at a face in the shattered window, and said, “If you want to save that depot, you’d better get with it.”

  He brought up his left hand, sticky with warm blood, and walked wearily into the middle of the street.

  “That’s right.” Speaking in a whisper to himself, but not caring who heard him. “Sergeant Dave Chance. Yeah. He knows Captain Savage well. ‘He only has fourteen men. He can’t afford to spare more than one.’ Ha! Damned near got me killed. That’s two men, Ranger Chance.”

  Men began spilling from the saloons, but in no hurry to put out the fire at the depot.

  A bullet from behind him tore through the tail of his coat.

  Albavera dropped, and spun.

  Men dived back into the saloons, moving at breakneck speed.

  A giant Mexican stepped into the light. He wore a thick beard, more salt than pepper, and a patch over
his right eye. He pitched an old muzzle-loading rifle onto the dirt, and drew a machete from the scabbard.

  Albavera hurled Miss Vickie at his head. The Mexican ducked. Just not low enough. The sawed-off rifle, flipping stock over barrel, clipped the Mexican’s left ear with the barrel, tearing a gash, knocking the big man to his knees.

  He came up screaming, slashing into the night with the machete.

  But Moses Albavera was no longer there. He was running. Cursing Dave Chance. “Three men. Not one. Not two. Three. Hell, Savage might have a whole damned army here.”

  He crossed the railroad tracks. White Beard had dragged Sack Suit’s body off the platform, and stood to the side, hands raised again. Flames enveloped the picket building. Albavera looked at the platform, saw the dead Ranger, but not the man’s pistol. He looked at the tracks. Turning, he saw the bloody-eared giant Mexican taking huge strides toward him.

  “Old man.” Albavera faced White Beard. “Where’s my saddle? Saddlebags?”

  White Beard studied him for a second, then looked at the Mexican. “I don’t think you got time to saddle no horse, young fella, and get away from that hombre.”

  “I left them on that handcart. Where’s the damned cart?”

  “Hell, likely Paddy Keegan put ’em in that shed yonder.” He pointed toward a side track that ran into a huge adobe warehouse.

  Only a few yards ahead of the Mexican, Albavera stumbled across the sidetrack, leaped over a mound of thick wooden ties, and made it to the door. He jerked it open, and stepped inside.

  He struck a match, looked right, then left, and saw the handcart in front of an old locomotive. Hearing the Mexican’s heavy breathing, he blew out the match and fumbled through the darkness, feeling the leather of the bridle, the coolness of the metal bit, over a stirrup, then found the saddlebags. He reached inside.

  Behind him, the Mexican stopped. A lucifer flamed to life, and the Mexican lit a lantern. “¿Es esto mejor?” The Mexican smiled.

  “That’s much better.” Albavera drew a pair of socks from the saddlebag, and flung them to the dirt. He pulled out a knife from the sheath, and stood, crouching, waving the knife in his right hand, grinning. “Much, much better.”

  The big Mexican closed in, tossing the machete from right hand to left, left to right, his one eye glaring.

  They danced around each other, stepping over iron rails, spikes, trash that littered the dirt floor. The machete sliced. Albavera sucked in his gut, and leaped backward. The Mexican laughed. Albavera’s side throbbed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw White Beard step inside the building. He found a keg, turned it over, and sat down, pulling out a chaw of tobacco and a knife, settling down to watch the fight.

  The machete blade flashed. Albavera spun, feeling the air whoosh by him, the momentum carrying the Mexican across the tracks. Albavera thrust his blade, but he, too was falling off balance, barely managing to keep his feet.

  Both men’s chests heaved. Albavera brought his left hand up, smelling the coppery odor. Seeing the blood in his hand, he wiped it on his trousers. His vest, which had cost him a fortune, was ruined. He ducked the machete’s slash again.

  Laughing, the Mexican said something, but Albavera didn’t understand. His heart pounded against his ribs. He felt beads of sweat popping on his brow, rolling into his eyes. They burned as he blinked away the sweat.

  The Mexican tossed the blade from one hand to another, cursing low in Spanish.

  Albavera brought the blade upward in a deadly thrust, pulled back, and swung his left fist, slamming the Mexican’s head. The man laughed. Albavera stepped back, shaking his hand, wondering if that behemoth’s rock-hard head had broken all of his fingers.

  The machete came at him again.

  And missed.

  Again, and again the man came at him, like a windmill, slicing the blade over and over, driving Albavera back. He blundered against a workbench, ducked, and sent a pack rat scurrying. The machete slammed into the bench between a screwdriver and a wrench. The Mexican tried to pull it free. Albavera thrust the blade at the Mexican’s side, but the Mexican met him with a sledgehammer of a fist, sending Albavera onto his back. Shaking his head, he scrambled to his feet. The Mexican had freed the machete, and the blade tore fringe off the sleeves of Albavera’s jacket.

  He tasted blood. That son of a bitch busted my lips. One of his teeth felt loose.

  Albavera avoided the machete once more, almost falling as he kicked over a box of iron spikes. He brought the knife up, but a vise gripped his wrist, pulling him close to the giant Mexican. He could smell the sweat, the blood, the cigarette smoke on the Mexican, as the giant drew him close. Albavera reached out with his left hand, and grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the machete. He squeezed. But the Mexican squeezed tighter. The knife fell from Albavera’s hand to the dirt.

  Bending his knees, he fell backward, and the Mexican went over him. Both men slammed against the engine’s cattle catcher, and rolled off, ripping the Mexican’s muslin shirtsleeve. Albavera’s buckskin coat snagged on metal. He freed his arms, leaving the jacket on the metal catcher, and tried to scramble to his feet, looking for the knife he had dropped. The Mexican jumped on top of him, pinning him to the floor. Laughing, he brought the machete over his head. Albavera’s right hand shot out, grasping for anything. He found something and slammed a railroad spike into the Mexican’s side.

  The man grunted. The machete slipped from his hands, and fell behind his back, landing between Albavera’s legs. With an ugly roar, the Mexican leaned forward, his massive hands latching onto Albavera’s throat.

  He pulled the spike from the Mexican’s side. Drove it in again. And again. The Mexican rolled off, releasing his grip on Albavera’s throat, but grabbing his vest, pulling him on top of him. The left hand found the throat again, and pulled Albavera closer. He began to crush Albavera’s windpipe.

  Albavera raised the spike again, and drilled it through the giant’s eye-patch almost to the iron spike’s bent head.

  His eyes opened. He saw the white beard, his jaw furiously working on the tobacco in his left cheek. White Beard’s head turned, and he sprayed the dead Mexican with tobacco juice. “You say you’re a friend of Dave Chance?”

  Albavera nodded. At least, he thought he had. He rubbed his throat, sucked in a ragged breath, spit out blood.

  “So happens, I’m an old pard of his, too. Name’s McGee. Mickey McGee.”

  Somehow, from the deep recesses of his mind, Albavera found that name. “Constantine gang,” he said, his voice a worn-out whisper. “You killed one of them.”

  The man’s brilliant eyes shined. “That’s right. I reckon you wasn’t lying about knowing me Davy boy.”

  White-bearded Mickey McGee, who looked nothing like Albavera had imagined, held out a meaty hand, and pulled him to a seated position.

  Albavera looked at the Mexican he had killed. That was a mistake. He almost vomited. Then he looked up at the black engine. Rust covered the huge smokestack, the big engine smelled of grease and dust, and the catcher was bent, battered, and covered with blood from the Mexican and Albavera, not to mention his buckskin coat.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “That? Criminy, boy, that’s a wood-burning 4-4-0 manufactured by Schenectady Locomotive Works of New York in eighteen and sixty-five. They don’t build ’em like that no more.”

  “Will it run?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Only two springs in Texas produced more water than Comanche Springs—which wasn’t saying a whole lot. Yet out in West Texas, water meant life, even if it tasted like it had been flavored with rusty iron horseshoes and as bitter as gall.

  The water brought freighters on the San Antonio-Chihuahua road, wayfarers on the Overland Mail route, and, before they had been pinned up on the reservation in Indian Territory, Comanches traveling the Great Comanche War Trail. All of which led to the establishment of Fort Stockton, first in the late 1850s, then in 1867 after the
War Between the States. Outside the fort, a town sprang up, originally named St. Gaul, but about four years ago the residents had renamed it to match that of the Army post.

  In the adobe headquarters building, Chance splashed water from the basin across his face, trying to wake himself up. He patted himself dry with his bandana, and took the cup of steaming coffee the corporal offered him. He sipped it, surprised at its pleasant taste.

  “Would you care to have a seat, sir?” The corporal, a thin man with a thick red mustache, motioned at a chair in front of a desk.

  With a worn smile, Chance shook his head. He had been in a saddle for sixty miles. The last thing he wanted was to sit down.

  The door opened, and in walked the major, a bald, bloated man wearing boots and a nightshirt, carrying the blue trousers with yellow stripes down the legs. Yawning, he made a beeline for his desk, and sat in the chair, barking an order for coffee to the corporal, before taking notice of Chance.

  “All right, Ranger,” the major said, as he kicked off his boots, and stood into the pants. “I’m Major J.R. Fields, commander of this post. What’s so damned important that you haul me from a pleasant dream at”—he looked at the Regulator clock on the wall, and shook his head—“Christ Almighty, twelve-o-seven in the morning?”

  Chance set the coffee on the desk, reached into his vest, and withdrew the note Hec Savage had written, handing it across the desk. “Major, I’m Dave Chance, sergeant, Company E, Texas Rangers. I think you had better read this yourself, sir.”

  The officer opened a drawer, rooted around, and brought up a pair of spectacles, which he set on the bridge of his nose. He started to read, then stopped, looking up at Chance. “Chance, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.” He knew what was coming.

  “I seem to recall—”

  “Bad Water Saloon a few years back.”

  “That’s right.” He continued to look at Chance, sizing him up.

  “Major, I really think you should read that letter. It’s from Captain Hec Savage.”