West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Chance came to his knees, swinging the rifle barrel from one side to the other, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

  Both men had expected to be greeted with gunfire. Instead, they heard only the barking of dogs outside. Gunsmoke drifted toward the ceiling, catching rays of sunlight that streamed through the broken window and doorway.

  The place smelled of gunsmoke, sawdust, and spilled whiskey.

  Albavera peered around the corner of the table, focused on the bar, scanned the top, the sides, then looked over at Chance, who motioned him to one side of the bar. The black man nodded in acknowledgment, and began creeping across the saloon’s hard-packed earthen floor. Chance moved to the opposite end.

  He leaned against the side of the bar, sucked in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and dived to the floor, the Winchester ready. Eighteen feet down the bar, he saw Moses Albavera do the same.

  They raised the barrels of their weapons, and quickly slid behind the bar.

  “Where the hell is he?” Albavera mouthed.

  Carefully, Chance stood. He peered at the shadows, the corners. Nothing. Albavera looked at the low ceiling, but there was no place for anyone to hide up there. Barely enough room for a rat. Chance stepped back, aiming the barrel underneath the bar, but found only bottles, bung starters, and trash. Albavera ran his tongue over his cracked lips. The two men looked at each other.

  “Trap door?” Albavera asked, audible now.

  “Hell, I don’t know.” Chance placed the cocked Centennial on the bar, and reached for a bottle of tequila.

  Albavera took a couple steps behind the bar, holstering Miss Vickie and moving the Smith & Wesson to his right hand. He pointed, and looked up as Chance splashed clear liquid into a dirty glass. “The Greener’s gone.”

  Chance glanced under the bar, again scanned the room, and slid the glass across the bar toward Albavera.

  Outside, the dogs had stopped barking. Muffled voices could be heard.

  Chance filled another dirty glass and killed the tequila in two swallows. His eyes scanned the ceiling again, then he began kicking the baseboard on the bar. He refilled his glass, and picked it up with his left hand.

  Albavera lifted his glass, and stepped in front of stacked barrels marked WHISKEY. One of the barrels toppled and caught his arm, knocking the .32 and the glass of whiskey to the floor. Taw Cutter leaped from behind the high stacked barrels, slamming the giant muzzles of the Greener shotgun into Albavera’s throat. “Leave the Winchester on the bar, Chance, or I blow this nigger’s head clear off.”

  Chance’s right hand froze on the Centennial. “Let him go.”

  “No way. I’m backing out of here. You move, and I kill him.”

  Chance shook his head. “Then I kill you.”

  “I don’t think so, Chance.” Cutter’s smile was crooked. “You always were too damned soft.” He tugged on Albavera’s shoulder. “Start backing.”

  Albavera obeyed.

  Chance kept his hand on the Winchester, but didn’t make any attempt to lift it. His left hand brought the glass of tequila to his lips. He sipped, and stood there. Watching.

  Albavera slid around an overturned table, tipped over a chair, and felt the barrels of the Greener bite deeper into the flesh under his chin.

  The two men stopped. “Don’t try nothing smart, darky,” Cutter said, his voice tight. The man stank of sweat, horseflesh, and leather.

  “Man, I can’t see where I’m going,” Albavera said. “You try backing up with a shotgun under your chin. Don’t shoot me just because I stumble. I’m trying to keep my feet.”

  “Just move,” Cutter said.

  At the bar, Chance sipped his drink.

  “All I’m doing,” Cutter said, his voice tense, “is taking the darky out of here. You stay put, Chance. I get on my horse. I ride away. All three of us get to go on living.”

  Chance swallowed the tequila. Took another swig. Cutter won’t do that. As soon as he is out the door, he’ll blow Albavera’s head off.

  Cutter would have the upper hand then. He’d have Chance pinned inside that bucket of blood. He swallowed, took another sip. Looking away from Cutter, Chance locked eyes with Albavera.

  He stopped as he reached the door.

  Cutter’s fingers squeezed hard. “Keep moving, nigger.”

  Albavera stumbled again, but jerked back his head, slamming it into Cutter’s nose, and dived to his left, saying, “Go to hell.”

  The Centennial was aimed waist high at the doorway. Chance’s finger had never left the trigger, and the .45-70 had been cocked. As Albavera dived to his left, the rifle roared. Both barrels of the shotgun discharged, shrouding Cutter’s face in white smoke, but only briefly. The .45-70 caught him in his midsection, sending him sailing through the doorway and onto the street.

  Chance finished the tequila, set the empty glass down, and came over the bar, jacking another round into the Winchester. Moving toward the door, he watched Albavera pick himself off the floor, and Taw Cutter writhing on the ground.

  Albavera slapped his ringing ears, and shook his head. His eyes met Chance’s, and the two men stepped through the door, stopped underneath the awning, and looked down at Taw Cutter.

  “God,” the Ranger said, choking on blood that poured out of his mouth, and seeped from his busted nose. “God . . . God . . .” He trembled, coughed, and, staring at the blue skies until his eyes lost focus, died.

  Said Albavera, “Thought you wanted to take him alive.”

  Replied Chance, “Changed my mind.”

  “Good.”

  “Not so good.” Chance lowered the hammer on the Centennial. “Now we don’t know a damned thing about what the hell Captain Savage is really planning.”

  “Yeah, we do.” Albavera drew the yellow page of a telegraph from his pocket, held it out for Chance. “Read this.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Elbows on his desk, head bent, Captain Miles Braden smoothed his mustache as he read the telegraph again. He cast his eyes at a crudely drawn map, then, releasing his mustache while shaking his head, he stared up at Dave Chance and Moses Albavera. His elbows remained on his desk as he held out his palms and said, “I don’t see what this proves.”

  Seething, Chance jabbed his finger at the telegraph. “That’s from Colonel Thomas. Ordering Captain Savage and Company E to Murphyville to make sure there’s no trouble when the eastbound S.P. arrives.”

  “So?”

  Tapping harder, Chance said, “There’s a quarter of a million dollars on that train. In gold bullion.”

  “I read that.”

  “Then don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “Jesus. Savage is going to rob that train. That’s why he sent your soldier boys south to Fort Leaton. To get you and the law, everybody out of the way.” He moved his finger to the map. “There. Moses took that off a Mexican bandit he killed in Sanderson. It marks that.” He tapped. “Cathedral Mountain. That’s south of Murphyville. Calamity Creek. That’s where Don Melitón Benton’s sheep operation is headquartered. Savage didn’t go to Fort Leaton. He went there. Major Fields and Colonel McVicker are going to Fort Leaton for nothing. That’s what Savage wanted. To get the Army out of the way.”

  Braden shook his head. “Orders from Austin and a map taken off a dead Mex. Those don’t prove anything. And you said yourself Savage has only fourteen men.”

  “Eleven.” Albavera spoke softly, carefully examining his fingernails. “Three have gotten themselves killed.”

  Ignoring Albavera, the captain continued, “That money will be well guarded. Savage doesn’t have enough men to pull off such a bold move.”

  “He’s got help,” Chance said. “Juan Lo Grande.”

  Captain Braden sniggered. “Really, Sergeant Chance, do you think your Ranger captain would form an alliance with any Mexican, especially Juan Lo Grande?”

  “For a quarter of a million bucks,” Chance said, “he’d join Lucifer himself.”

  A
dded Albavera, “I’m fairly tempted myself.”

  Chance stiffened. That Moorish gambler didn’t know when to shut the hell up. Chance told Braden, “Lo Grande sent those two Mexicans to Sanderson. Plus, Moses and I killed a couple more in the hills between Fort Davis and Marathon. Lo Grande’s in this, sure as hell.”

  “You don’t know that for certain.”

  “The hell I don’t.” Actually, Chance was guessing, but it had to be. It all made sense.

  The captain waved his finger at Chance. “You brought in a note from Captain Savage that says he is holding an officer and enlisted men of the Third United States Cavalry—my outfit, mind you—and will kill them, and other hostages unless payment is received on Sunday afternoon.” Braden lowered his arms. “Major Fields left me here. Didn’t want to share the glory—”

  “Then get some glory for yourself,” Chance said, frustrated, feeling like he was wasting time trying to pry the Army officer off his ass. “Send your troops to Murphyville. We can attack Don Melitón’s camp.”

  “Those are not my orders, Sergeant.”

  “Captain Savage always told us that orders were open for interpretation. Actually, he said there never was an order written that wasn’t made to be broken.”

  Braden shook his head contemptuously. “That’s just like you undisciplined Texas Rangers. West Point teaches us otherwise.”

  “Captain, don’t be so obtuse.”

  Braden’s muscles tightened, and he slowly rose, speaking in a harsh voice. “Get out. Both of you. Get out. Before I have you thrown off this post, or into the guardhouse.”

  Outside, Chance angrily pulled his hat on his head, turned back to the door and started to open it, then changed his mind.

  “Too bad the Ninth Cavalry isn’t stationed here anymore,” Albavera said, fingering a bullet hole in his hat. “Black soldiers. White officers, mostly, but smart fellows. They aren’t obtuse.”

  “You’re right.” Chance let out a sigh of exasperation, and looked across the parade grounds. The American flag popped in the wind. A few soldiers marched from the north end to the south. A horse whinnied in the stables.

  Asked Albavera, “What exactly does obtuse mean?”

  “I’m not sure.” Chance stepped off the stone porch, and gathered the reins to the chestnut. “Just something Grace Profit called me once.” He took the lead rope and pulled the two bays behind him, heading toward the corral.

  Leading the Andalusian, Albavera followed. “Where we going?” the black man asked.

  “That stallion of yours is half dead. We’ll get you some horses.”

  A lanky trooper in a stable frock met Chance and Albavera at the stables. Chance waved a greeting, and smiled Luckily it was the same soldier who had helped him pick out his horses the night before. He hooked a thumb toward the headquarters building. “Captain Braden sent us to get three more horses for my pard.”

  “Morning,” Albavera greeted, and pushed back his jacket to reveal the badge on his vest, before he handed the stallion’s reins to the soldier. “You take fine care of this Andalusian. He’s special.”

  “I’ll say.” The soldier spit a mouthful of tobacco juice into the dirt. “Man who owns him has posted a fifty dollar reward for his return.”

  Albavera frowned.

  Chance grinned. “Guess you just made fifty bucks, trooper. Pick out three of your fastest horses, if you will. And hurry. We’re burning daylight.”

  As the soldier led the stallion into the stables, Albavera approached Chance, tilting his head toward the headquarters building. “You figure that pasty white captain’ll come after us for stealing government mounts?”

  “It’d be nice. Give us some more men after they realize we’re right and their captain is a damned fool. But I don’t think Captain Braden has the guts to leave this post.”

  It was well past midnight when they reached Marathon, their horses—Chance on the bay with the three white feet, Albavera on a buckskin—hanging their heads, panting, about played out. Their mounts weren’t the only things half dead. They had been in the saddle for fourteen hours, leaving the four other horses they had ridden in the desert north of town. Over the past thirty-six hours, Chance had ridden about one hundred and twenty miles. Albavera had ridden that distance and sixty miles more, plus fed wood into the firebox on a Schenectady 4-4-0 locomotive on another sixty-mile leg.

  Both men eased from the saddles in front of the depot. Chance stared at the big black locomotive, creaking, hissing, smelling of wood smoke and grease, while Albavera stamped his legs to get the blood circulating again.

  A yawning, white-bearded face appeared in the window of the cab, and Mickey McGee let out a wild yelp, then bounded out of the cabin. He gripped Chance’s arms, said something, and wrapped his arms around the exhausted Ranger. “Damn, Davy me boy, it’s grand to see you. Just grand.” He released his bear-hug, stepped back, and began scratching his beard. “Where’s the soldiers?”

  Chance shook his head.

  “Sheriff?”

  Another shake.

  “Who you got?”

  Chance hooked a thumb at Albavera, walked to the saddle, and jerked the Winchester from the scabbard, saying, “And you.”

  Shuffling his feet, McGee said, “I see.”

  “You sober?” Chance asked. He leaned the Centennial against a drive wheel, and began unsaddling the bay.

  “Sure, Davy. Moses neglected to tell me that Captain Savage burned down the only saloon in Marathon. Had I knowed that, I probably wouldn’t have volunteered.”

  “Since when did you become an engineer?” Chance tossed the saddle into the open door of the cattle car.

  “Since Moses and me got this little baby huffin’ and puffin’ about as hard as Sean O’Rourke was when we told him what we was plannin’ to do. But I’ve ridden in enough locomotives, shared enough jugs with enough engineers, it’s not too hard to figure out how to make one of these things go and stop. Hell of a lot easier than layin’ track, that’s for sure.”

  Moonlight shined on the locomotive, and the engine’s headlamp sprayed the tracks with light. Lights were also burning at the depot, and a few windows glowed at the Iron Mountain Inn, but the rest of Marathon was dark, asleep. Chance stepped back. Behind the tender were two cattle cars. Too much. “Best uncouple that last car, Mickey,” Chance said. He threw the bridle behind the saddle, and patted the bay’s neck. The bay barely acknowledged any affection.

  “Grace has a black mare in the livery,” Chance told Albavera. “We’ll bring her. And borrow Mr. Kipperman’s Appaloosa.”

  They drank coffee in the cab while waiting for the pressure to build up in the boiler. All three men were sweating. Albavera leaned on a shovel, and Chance picked a wood splinter from the palm of his hand. McGee shook his head. “How the hell do you plan on stoppin’ Captain Savage and that Mexican badman?”

  Chance folded the blade to the knife, flipped it to McGee, and rubbed his right hand on his trousers, picking up the coffee cup with his left. He didn’t answer.

  “One of you could go see the sheriff at Fort Davis,” McGee said. “Or the soldiers there.”

  “They’re likely halfway to Presidio by now,” Chance said. “We don’t have much time.”

  McGee shook his head again. “Well, how about we take this train all the way through Murphyville. Meet up with the eastbound S.P. Warn them what’s goin’ on.”

  “They wouldn’t believe us,” Albavera said.

  “They might.”

  Chance shook his head. He had considered that option on the ride from Fort Stockton, but had dismissed it. “No, Mickey, the captain’s sure to have some men, his or Lo Grande’s, probably both, in Murphyville. They see a train come barreling through heading west, they’d get word to Savage. He’d figure out something was wrong. And wouldn’t have any use for Grace or that prostitute from Terlingua.”

  “Isn’t he holdin’ some others captive, too?” McGee asked.

  “Could be. Those soldiers migh
t be at Fort Leaton. Along with that barber and the mayor. The captain maybe left one or two men behind, to keep the Army and the law at bay, keep them talking, trying to get those prisoners released, keep them away from the S.P. tracks and that load of money.”

  Savage, however, couldn’t have sent Grace Profit and Linda Kincaid all the way to Presidio. He couldn’t afford to spare any more men. They had to be at La Oveja. Or . . .

  Albavera cleared his throat, and finished Chance’s thought. “Those women . . . Savage could have killed them.”

  Chance nodded. “Yeah. I’ve thought about that. But Captain Savage has always been decent, as far as women are concerned. Part of his code. You treat a woman good. Doesn’t matter if she’s a whore or a saloon owner. You treat her like you would your mother or sister.”

  “I hated my sister,” Albavera said. “And she hated me.”

  Chance finished the coffee, ignoring Albavera’s comment. “I think Savage took those women to La Oveja. You get this train moving, Mickey. Take us to about five miles east of Murphyville. Moses and I’ll ride into the mountains. Maybe we can get those women out of there.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “You wait.”

  “Never was much good at waitin’. How ’bout if I borrow one of those horses in that livery, ride down to that goat farm with you?”

  “Sheep ranch,” Chance corrected.

  “Sheep, goats, they all stink like hell.”

  Chance shook his head. “I don’t want you getting hurt, Mickey.”

  “What about me?” Albavera asked.

  “I don’t care,” Chance said.

  “Boy,” McGee said, putting his hands on his hips. “You seem to be forgettin’ that I saved your arse a few years back. It was me that stoved in Robert Constantine’s head. Don’t you worry none about Mickey McGee, Davy boy. I can take care of meself just fine.”

  Chance nodded. “All right, Mickey. Fetch a horse and saddle. But make it quick.”

  As soon as McGee had left the cab, Albavera tossed the dregs from his cup out the window, and checked the gauge on the boiler. “That makes it three against . . . how many men you think Lo Grande has with him?”