“Very well.” His eyes dropped to the note. After a moment, his gray eyes looked up at Chance again as he turned to the second page. He frowned, finished the letter, and let the papers drop onto his desk.
“Are you serious?” the major asked. The corporal brought him his coffee. Major Fields opened another drawer, and brought out a bottle of rye, from which he poured two fingers, then added two more splashes, into the coffee. Looking back at Chance, he said, “Well?”
“Savage has killed, or had killed, three of his men,” Chance replied. “I don’t know what his plans are.”
Major Fields picked up the note again. “You rode up here from Presidio?”
“Marathon.”
He looked up from the letter. “Nelson Bookbinder and I were at West Point together. He was a year behind me. A good man, Nelson, a good soldier, a fine friend. Do you think your captain is, as this letter claims, holding him hostage at Fort Leaton?”
Actually, Chance thought Captain Bookbinder and those other enlisted men were dead. Hec Savage had never been one for taking prisoners. Those he did capture alive were often executed shortly afterward by summary judgment. Yet Chance shrugged.
The major sipped his coffee. “Captain Savage can’t be serious.”
“If you know Captain Savage, sir, you know he’s deadly serious.”
“He’s mad.”
Chance nodded. “Fellow I know, should be in Sanderson right about now, agrees with you. He’s sending a telegraph to Austin. Least, I hope he is.”
As Chance filled in the story, Major Fields finished his coffee, pressed his fingers together, and rested his head against the tent his hands had formed. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and lowered his hands, looking into Chance’s eyes.
“We can’t wait for the governor to request help,” Major Fields said. “There’s not enough time.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“Besides, your captain is holding an officer and enlisted men of the United States Army hostage. I’ll nail his hide to the barn door.” He rose, barking out an order to the corporal. “Stone, send a galloper to Fort Davis. Right now.” He folded Savage’s letter, and handed it to Corporal Stone. “Have him deliver this note to Colonel McVicker, ask him to send as many troopers as he can spare to Fort Leaton. Have him request the sheriff of Presidio County assemble a posse to accompany his command.” He began scribbling his orders on paper, talking as he wrote.
“We will follow Coyanosa Draw to Murphyville, and, with luck, meet the colonel and his men on the Alamito before they reach Presidio. Have the galloper tell Colonel McVicker that I cannot attest to the veracity of this letter, but we just cannot risk the lives of Captain Bookbinder and his men, nor those other hostages. Two women and a priest, by God.”
“Not to mention a mayor and a barber,” Chance added.
“Bugger the mayor,” Major Fields roared. “Bugger the barber. Worthless politicians.” He signed and sealed the orders, handed them to Corporal Stone. “Awaken Captain Braden. Inform him that I will head the command, and the captain will be in charge of the post until my return. We will leave him with one company of infantry and anyone in the hospital or guardhouse. All others will go to Presidio. Two weeks’ rations and thirty rounds of ammunition per man.”
Stepping into his boots, Fields continued his orders. “When you have informed Captain Braden, have the trumpeter sound reveille. Then you will ride to town and inform Sheriff Vanwy that his presence is requested here immediately. We will organize a joint punitive action against Captain Savage and his gang of black-hearts.”
Chance spoke up. “Fort Leaton is outside Vanwy’s jurisdiction, Major. That’s Presidio County.”
“I don’t give a damn. I don’t think Sheriff Vanwy does, either.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Stone saluted the major and hurried out the door.
“You want to come with us, Sergeant?” Major Fields stepped around the desk, pushing his trousers into his boot tops.
Chance finished his coffee. “With the major’s permission, I’d like to try something else—just in case Captain Savage has other plans. But I could use a horse, sir. Preferably two.” He thought about how hard he’d have to ride. “Better make it three. Mine is played out.”
“Take your pick. And welcome. Just bring those horses back.”
“You just take care of that sorrel. Cost me fifteen dollars.”
“What’re your plans, Sergeant?”
Chance grinned. “First, get some sleep.”
The major gave him a look of skepticism.
Chance didn’t feel like explaining anything. He needed the rest. He couldn’t keep up that pace. If he rode out with the soldiers, he’d likely fall asleep in the saddle five miles south of the fort. It had been an exhausting, jarring ride from Marathon to Fort Stockton, and it wasn’t like he had been taking it easy all week. He needed some shuteye. He’d sleep the rest of the night, get up early in the morning, and with three horses, head south back to Marathon. And then? Fort Leaton, to join Major Fields and those soldier boys? Sanderson, and wait on a reply to the telegraph Moses Albavera, maybe, had sent? Chance wasn’t sure. Perhaps something would come to him before he reached Marathon tomorrow.
“Very well.” The major was speaking. “You rest. I, however, must prepare for our expedition.” Outside, the metallic blares of a trumpet sounded, and Major Fields went out the door. Left alone, Dave Chance picked up the bottle of rye the officer had left on the desk, and walked outside the headquarters building himself.
The trooper at the Fort Stockton stables let Chance take two bays and a liver chestnut. He threw his saddle on the bay with the blaze on its forehead, and led the other two horses out of the military compound buzzing with activity, and rode to the town, riding to the wagon yard at the southern edge of town. The Negro working there charged him two bits for the night. Chance let him have the last few swings from the bottle of rye.
Surprisingly, he slept well, but woke up stiff and sore. The sun was already rising, and he swore softly. He had wanted to be riding before the sun was up. After he pulled on his boots, he looked over the horses the Army had loaned him, getting a better view than he had gotten at the Army stables. He decided he liked the liver chestnut the best, so saddled it, and led the two bays, one with a blaze forehead, the other with three white feet, out of the wagon yard.
Stomach grumbling, he rode to the café just up the street from the wagon yard, tethered his horses to the hitching rail, and stepped inside to the smell of burned bacon and black coffee. He sat at the counter next to a couple of smelly wolfers, the only customers in the place. The waitress, a big woman with black hair pinned up in a bun, filled a mug with coffee without asking what he wanted to drink.
“Biscuits,” he said, “and gravy.” That should fill him up quickly.
“You got it, hon,” she said in a Texas drawl, and walked to the kitchen to place the order, leaving the coffee on a potbelly stove.
He rubbed his eyes, flexed his wrists, and sipped the bitter brew. The two wolfers muttered something, and the bell above the door chimed as someone else entered the café. Chance looked at the mirror on the wall.
And ducked.
The bullet blew apart the coffeepot, sending it spinning, clattering, spraying the stove with liquid that sizzled against the cast iron. Cursing, the wolfers leaped across the counter, taking their plates and mugs with them, slamming hard against the floor.
“Not again,” the waitress said from the kitchen. Her voice rose. “It’s too early for gunplay!”
Chance left the stool, landing on his knees, and pushing himself to his right. He hit the floor with the Schofield extended in his right hand as a second bullet clipped his hat. He fired at the gent’s waxed blond mustache, knowing he had missed, and rolled over.
Acrid white smoke clouded the small restaurant, burning Chance’s eyes, fouling his nostrils. Glass shattered. The bell above the door rang out again as the man dived outside.
A noise came from behind him, and Chance rolled onto his back, bringing the .45 up. The waitress appeared, holding a pepperbox pistol.
Their eyes met. Chance lowered his pistol, and stood up, looking through the doorway, and out the window.
“Hell,” the waitress was saying, “I figured it was them two wolfers shootin’ at each other. But you? You’re a Ranger.”
Heading past the woman, Chance said, “So’s the guy shooting at me.” He walked through the kitchen, out the back door, and into an alley that smelled of trash and grease. He eased toward the street, keeping his finger on the trigger, the hammer cocked. A rooster crowed. Dogs yelped from all the gunshots. Chance hurried down the alley, crossed over to the other side, and hugged the adobe wall of a cobbler’s shop. Across the road, he saw a figure running, leaping, landing on the far side of a water trough.
He had a clear view of the empty street. He made sure his three horses were safe, then focused on the water trough.
When Taw Cutter lifted his head, Chance fired.
The bullet tore off the Ranger’s hat, and Cutter ducked. A moment later, he was up, running down the boardwalk, firing from his hip, but not coming close to hitting anything.
Chance sent one round after the fleeing Ranger, then ran in the opposite direction. Moving deliberately to the chestnut, he pulled the Winchester Centennial from the scabbard, and jacked a round into the chamber. Walking into the center of the street, he brought the big rifle to his shoulder.
The .45-70 roared. The bullet splintered a wooden column that held up the awning to the stagecoach station.
Cutter yelped, grabbed his right ear, stumbled, and ran across the street. Firing once, he performed a border shift, tossed his empty pistol from his right hand to his left, and drew another revolver from the holster on his right hip, all while running.
Impressive, Chance thought.
Cutter’s second revolver thundered.
Not impressive. Chance stood far out of pistol range. He brought the rifle up, and drew a bead on the running figure of Taw Cutter.
He sensed . . . something. Perhaps he heard a noise. Maybe it was instinct, or just plain luck. But instead of pulling the trigger, he leaped to his side, as another bullet buzzed past him and dug into the sandy street.
Chance rolled onto his back, looking for a target, finding Eliot Thompson coming out of the wagon yard, working the lever of his Winchester.
He figured—knew it, actually, as well as he knew anything—that Hec Savage would send a rider to Sanderson. But Savage had sent two men to Fort Stockton. Chance worried if Moses Albavera had met more than one person in Sanderson, wondered if that big black man had been killed.
He couldn’t fret over that. He had more pressing matters.
Such as that Winchester repeater Eliot Thompson was about to fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Chance was a dead man. He knew that as he tried to find the Ranger down the street in his gun sights. Next to Doc Shaw, Eliot Thompson was probably the best rifle shot in Company E, and Chance lay in the center of the street, with no place to hide. Thompson appeared to be grinning as his finger tightened on the trigger.
A gun roared, but Chance didn’t see any smoke from Thompson’s Winchester. Instead, Thompson was catapulted to his side, sending the rifle cartwheeling across the road. A gray stallion, lathered with sweat, loped around the corner of an adobe jacal across from the wagon yard, and Chance recognized the dark figure in the saddle. The Andalusian shifted into a weary gallop. Chance rolled over, came to his knees, and aimed the Centennial at Taw Cutter. Seeing Thompson down, and another rider thundering into town, Cutter loosened one quick, fruitless shot at Chance, and kicked open the closed door to a saloon. He disappeared inside.
Chance looked at the sign above the doors. BAD WATER SALOON. “Great,” he sighed, and looked back.
Thompson had crawled to the Winchester, and was using the rifle as a crutch. He pushed himself up to his knees, the left side of his shirt soaked with blood. Moses Albavera reined in the Andalusian, and slid from the saddle, shoving Miss Vickie in the holster, and reaching into the pocket of his buckskin coat. Thompson let the rifle fall, and reached for a .45 holstered, butt forward, on his left hip.
A small pistol bucked in Albavera’s right hand, the bullet driving into Thompson’s gut.
“‘No . . .’”
Another shot.
“ ‘Niggers . . .’”
Another shot.
“‘Allowed . . .’”
Boom!
“‘In . . .’”
Boom!
“‘Savage.’”
The hammer clicked empty. “Isn’t that what you said, Ranger?” Albavera swung around, crouched, and ran toward Chance, leaving the Andalusian in the street, leaving the bullet-riddled body of Eliot Thompson in the dust.
Chance was on his feet, waved his hand at the Bad Water Saloon, and sprinted across the street. A bullet kicked up dust in front of him. Chance answered, firing from the hip. He reached the adobe wall of the saloon a few rods from the door. Albavera leaped over the hitching rail, and flattened himself against the wall next to Chance. He reloaded the sawed-off Springfield, then broke open the Smith & Wesson .32, ejecting the five spent casings. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he brought out a handful of bullets, and thumbed them into the cylinder.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chance said tightly, keeping his eyes on the front door and window to the saloon.
“You’re welcome.” Albavera snapped the .32 shut. “Hell, man, I just saved your life.”
“I wanted him alive.” Chance spit, and wiped his mouth. “And I told you to go to Sanderson.”
“I did. Sent your damned telegraph. Killed that Ranger with the Mexican hat.”
“Bucky Bragg?”
“I didn’t ask his name. He didn’t give it.”
“How’d you get here so fast?”
“It’s a long damned story. Maybe I can tell it to you over a morning bracer.” He pointed the .32’s small barrel at the door.
“I could use a drink,” Chance said.
“Hey.” Albavera raised his head. “Isn’t this the Bad Springs Saloon?”
“Bad Water,” Chance corrected.
“Who’s inside?”
“Taw Cutter. He’s got one six-shooter. And there’s no back door to this place.”
“He might have found the scattergun the beer-jerker keeps behind the bar,” Albavera said.
“Maybe.” Chance looked down the street. The two wolfers, the cook, and the waitress were standing in front of the café, keeping a respectful distance from any potentially stray bullet. A couple dogs on the porch in front of the Comanche Springs Bank were barking, growling. Nobody else dared show his face.
Albavera shook his head. “I don’t care much for shotguns. If memory serves, that’s a sawed-off Greener behind that bar. Twelve gauge.”
“It’s not your concern. I figured you’d be in Mexico by now.”
“Where’s the sheriff?” Albavera asked.
“Rode off with the Army boys to Fort Leaton.”
“Not all of them, I’m sure. We could ask the soldiers for some help.”
“There’s only one man in there.”
“Uh-huh.” Albavera slid the Smith & Wesson into his coat pocket, pulled the Springfield from the holster, and thumbed back the hammer. “And Savage could only afford to send one man to Sanderson. Hell, Chance, there were three.”
Chance turned, unbelieving. “Three?”
“That’s right. Three. The bastard who stole my Andalusian and two Mexicans.”
“Mexicans?”
“Yeah. I know Mexicans when I see them, especially when one’s about to tear my head off with a machete.”
Chance looked back at the doorway. “Well, I’m not leaving Taw Cutter here. Besides, this is a civilian matter. Army’s got no jurisdiction here.”
“Suit yourself. How you want to handle it?”
&nbs
p; Staring again at the big Moor, Chance started to say something, but couldn’t find the right words. He shook his head, and turned again to the doorway. Suddenly, he swung back around, reached out with his left hand, and fingered the badge Albavera had pinned on his vest. Their eyes met.
Albavera grinned. “I deputized myself. The Rangers also owe Corbett’s Hardware Store in Sanderson for a box of .32s, since you didn’t give me any extra ammunition.”
“Didn’t occur to me.” Chance eased his way toward the door, his back braced against the adobe. “This isn’t your fight.”
Albavera followed him. “The hell it isn’t. I don’t tolerate horse thieves.”
“You got your horse back.”
“And I’m damned sure not letting a bunch of ignorant, murdering racists run me out of this country. ‘No niggers allowed in Savage.’ We’ll see about that. I’m with you, Ranger Chance.”
Chance yelled at the doorway. “Cutter! There’s no way out. Throw your gun out, and come out with your hands high.”
“Come and get me!” a panicked voice cried from inside the dark saloon.
Still staring at the door, Chance whispered, “Where do you make him?”
“Behind the bar.” Albavera shook his head, sighing, and added, “Likely with that Greener in his hands.” With his left hand, he drew the .32 from his coat pocket, and thumbed back the hammer.
“I want him alive. I’ll go through the window. You come through the door. I’ll come up on the left. You cover the right.”
“Who’s got the center?” Albavera asked, but Chance was already moving.
Pulling the trigger to the Winchester as he leaped, Chance watched the glass window shatter as he dived through the opening. He landed on a poker table, which collapsed under the force of his impact. Rolling onto the floor, shards of glass tore into his hands as he worked the Centennial’s lever.
Albavera ducked through the doorway, keeping low, snapping a shot from the .32 in his left hand that shattered a jug of mescal on the bar. Moving to his right, the sawed-off Springfield in his right hand, he dived to the floor, overturning a table. He crouched behind it, using it for shelter.
West Texas Kill Page 17
