“Twenty. Thirty.”
Albavera chuckled. “You think they can handle us?”
“I told you to head across the border after you sent that telegraph to Austin. You didn’t have to come back.”
“But I like you, Ranger Chance.”
Chance started to say, I like you, too, but stopped himself. He opened the furnace, grabbed another piece of wood, tossed it into the flames, and looked across the street.
In the moonlight, he could see Mickey McGee leading a horse on a halter, lugging a saddle in his other hand. The horse turned its head, whinnied. Down the road, came another horse’s answer. Mickey stopped, stared down the dark street, then began to run.
Muttering an oath, Chance closed the iron door to the furnace, and reached for the Winchester Centennial. Slowly, Albavera drew the sawed-off Springfield.
“Stay here.” Chance slipped off the engine.
In the darkness came the pounding of horses.
“How fast can you get this thing moving?” Chance asked as Mickey ran past to the cattle car.
“Not that fast,” McGee said.
Chance worked the lever of the Winchester and stepped onto the street. Albavera climbed down from the cab, and helped McGee load a piebald gelding up the ramp and into the cattle car. McGee ran to the engine, Albavera started to close the door to the cattle car, but stopped, and walked to Chance’s side.
“Told you to stay put,” Chance said.
“Orders are open for interpretation. Besides, there never was an order written that wasn’t made to be broken.” He put his hand on the stock of the Springfield.
A dozen riders loped into view, and quickly formed a semicircle around them. Lights began glowing in the windows of the homes across the street, and down at the hotel, as eleven vaqueros on horseback aimed Spencer repeating rifles at Chance and Albavera. The twelfth rider nudged his horse closer, and Chance figured, maybe, just maybe, he had found some help. Better help than the Army. Of that he was certain.
Providing, of course, those vaqueros didn’t kill him, Albavera, and McGee in the next few minutes.
“Evening, Don Melitón,” Chance said, and lowered the hammer on the Centennial.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
With a blend of grace, dignity and gringo trader, Don Melitón swung from the saddle, handing the reins to the vaquero closest to him. He said nothing, just stroked his white goatee, the moonlight giving his features a pale glow, staring first at Moses Albavera, then at Dave Chance. The man’s eyes revealed nothing. He was still dressed in the calzoneras and suede jacket, and slowly removed the black hat, holding its stiff-edged brim in his hands. Then, his face never betraying any emotion, he lashed out, sending the coarse, horsehair braided stampede string slashing like a whip across Chance’s face.
Chance flinched, brought his hand to his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingertips. He let his arms fall to his side, as his eyes met Don Melitón’s.
“That,” the old man said, “is for Fort Davis. I am not one to be left bound like some common criminal.”
Blood dripped down Chance’s face. He stood still, staring at Don Melitón as the nobleman reached with his left hand, and fingered the peso badge pinned to Chance’s vest. Suddenly, he ripped it off, tossed it in the dirt, and ground it with the sole of his boot. “You have been busy, el rinche.” His voice was chilling.
“I had nothing to do with your two vaqueros getting killed,” Chance said.
“¡Silencio!” His accent sounded more Missouri than Mexico.
Chance kept talking. “The hell I will. Captain Savage killed your two men.” Bracing himself for another burning lash as Don Melitón swung back his hat, prepared to strike Chance again, he blurted out, “I warrant he’s killed more, if you have anyone at La Oveja.”
Hand and hat froze behind the old man’s head. His eyes showed curiosity. “What? What do you mean?”
Catching his breath, Chance wiped the blood off his cheek, while explaining. “Savage has hooked up with Juan Lo Grande. They plan to rob the eastbound Southern Pacific when it hits Murphyville.”
A laugh escaped the old man’s throat. He shook his head, and returned the hat to his head. “You take me for a fool?” Shoving Chance aside, he stood face-to-face with Moses Albavera.
“It’s true,” Chance said to the don’s back. “They’ve teamed up to rob the eastbound Southern Pacific when it hits Murphyville. I’m pretty sure he’s holed up at La Oveja. Waiting for the train.”
The don fingered the badge on Albavera’s vest, looked into the man’s dark eyes. “You killed my son,” he said in a tight whisper.
Albavera nodded. “Seemed like the thing to do.”
Don Melitón backhanded him, stepped away, and put his hand on the Allen & Wheelock in his sash, his thumb on the side hammer.
They hadn’t noticed Mickey McGee in the cab of the locomotive. Probably wouldn’t have ever seen him if he hadn’t released the steam, and blown the whistle at the moment Don Melitón drew his single-shot pistol, the same time the moon disappeared behind a cloud.
Steam belched from the Schenectady engine, and the whistle screamed, panicking the horses, and the don’s riders. Gunfire erupted. Horses reared, bucked, and spun. The engine lurched forward, and McGee yelled, “All aboard!” He fired a shot from a Remington revolver into the darkness.
A bullet tore through Chance’s left hand, as he dived, extending the Winchester. Another round clipped his boot heel. Swinging the barrel, he caught Don Melitón Benton’s ankles, dropping him into the dirt. A rider thudded nearby, the breath whooshing from his lungs, the horse he had been on loping east through town.
Spanish curses and shouts rang out as the engine groaned. Warnings for the vaqueros to hold their fire, that they might hit el patrón.
The train moved.
So did Albavera. The sawed-off Springfield cut loose like a cannon, and another horse fell into the darkness, kicking, thrashing in its death throes. The moon reappeared. Dogs barked. A rooster crowed. Coyotes wailed in the desert that surrounded the town.
Chance scrambled to his feet, as Albavera jerked the old man up, grabbing his single-shot .22, pressing the barrel into Don Melitón’s temple.
“Come on,” Chance said, aiming the Centennial from his waist, taking in what he could make out in the moonlight.
Three riders were down, one holding his shoulder, writhing on the ground. One horse lay dead. Two other horses were bucking, their riders pulling leather, desperately hanging on. Another horse spun, stamped its hooves, swung its head left to right, fighting the bit. Yet a bunch of rifles remained pointed at Chance and Albavera.
They couldn’t shoot, though. Not with Albavera holding their patrón close, not with that pistol cocked and glued to the old man’s head.
“You slip, old man,” Albavera said, “and you join your son in hell.” He picked up the pace.
Chance led as they ran across the empty lot, then behind the Iron Mountain Inn. He tossed his rifle through the open door, grabbed the handle, and swung himself into the cattle car. The train was picking up speed. The vaqueros, those still mounted, rode down the street. Chance gripped the wood with his right hand, leaned down, and reached out with his bloody left hand.
“Take his hand!” Albavera commanded.
The old man did, but his hand slipped off because of the blood. He tried again, made it. Grunting, Chance squeezed as hard as he could, surprised to find his muscles cooperating, and pulled Don Melitón into the car. He sat up, grabbed for Albavera, and missed.
A bullet splintered the door. Another whined off the iron wheel. The vaqueros cursed. Another shot lost itself in the distance, then Mickey McGee fired a quick succession from the Remington. A horse stumbled, threw its rider into the dust.
The train passed the path that led to the church and cemetery, chugging, grinding, picking up speed.
Moses Albavera dropped the .22, leaped, and landed in the cattle car.
Another bullet ricocheted
off the tender. Inside the cattle car, the three horses borrowed from the Marathon livery stamped their hooves, snorting. The whistle screeched again. No. That was no train whistle. That was Mickey McGee cutting loose with a rebel yell as the 4-4-0 engine began pulling away from the don’s riders, heading west into the blackness as another cloud swallowed the moon.
A match flamed to life, and the cattle car brightened as Albavera lit the wick to a lantern, and turned it up. He peered out the open door, the wind cooling him as he stared into the blackness. Leaning against the rough, ventilated wooden wall, Chance bit back pain as he wrapped a bandana around his bloody hand.
“You want me to burn that hand, stop that bleeding?” Albavera asked.
“No!” Chance snapped. “I don’t want you touching me.”
“Testy.” He turned away from the door, and stared at Don Melitón Benton. The man sat there, wooden, in the middle of the car. Stiff, unblinking, mad, he wiped Chance’s blood off his own hand on his pants leg.
“That is twice I have let you surprise me,” Don Melitón said. “There won’t be a third time.”
“Damn right.” Chance tied the bandana tight, grimacing, reaching up with his right hand, and pulling himself to his feet. The car wobbled. “Next time I’ll just kill you.”
“Like I said,” Albavera whispered. “Testy.”
“Shut up, Moses.” Chance wobbled over until he stood in front of the old man. Stood there, weaving to the car’s motion, beads of sweat popping on his forehead. “You think I’m a fool, old man?”
The don looked up.
“I had my prisoner.” He thumbed at Albavera. “I could be in Sanderson. Could have taken him to Fort Stockton. I could be riding to Galveston. Why do you think I’m still here”—he pointed again behind him—“with that son of a bitch?”
Don Melitón said nothing.
“Captain Savage killed three Rangers. He killed two of your men. He has taken Grace Profit hostage. Maybe some others. Or maybe they’re all dead. He’s planning to rob the Southern Pacific of a quarter of a million dollars. He’s working with Juan Lo Grande. That’s why I’m here. And he’s holed up, for now, at your sheepherding camp.”
No change of expression on the don’s rugged face.
“The Army, the Presidio County and Pecos County law are all down at Fort Leaton. Thinking that’s where Savage is. They’ve given him plenty of rein. There’s nobody to stop him or Lo Grande. Except me”—he pointed again—“and him”—he nodded at Don Melitón—“and you.”
The don blinked.
“How many men do you have at La Oveja?” Chance asked.
No answer.
“Christ.” Chance kicked out, almost lost his footing, and had to regain his balance. He looked over at Albavera. “Moses, throw this arrogant bastard out of this damned car.”
When Albavera started to stand, the don caught his breath, and said, “Miguel Aquiles and his grandson.”
“That’s all?” Chance asked.
“There is not much to do until the ewes begin lambing in the spring.”
Chance knelt, rubbed his left hand, the bandana already soaked through with blood. He looked into Don Melitón’s eyes. “Will you help us?”
Smiling without humor, the old man shook his head. “Help you?” He jutted his chin toward Albavera. “Help the man who killed my only son?”
“Your only son was a creep,” Chance said. The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing, but Chance didn’t let up. “And you know it. Tell him what happened, Moses.”
Albavera cleared his throat. “I told him at Fort Davis. Remember?”
“Tell him again.”
“Well, we were playing poker in Shafter. A Mexican lady came in, selling tamales. Prince took one, tasted it, told her it was terrible, shoved it in her face, so hard he knocked her to the floor. I came to her defense. Prince and me exchanged—”
“I’ve heard your story,” Don Melitón interrupted.
His eyes drilling through the old man, Chance said softly, “And you know Moses is telling the truth.”
“I owe my son,” Don Melitón said stiffly. “That much, I owe him.”
“How much do you owe Miguel Aquiles and his grandson?” Chance asked. “Or their next of kin?”
The train groaned to a stop in the gap between the Glass and Del Norte ranges, the skies beginning to lighten into a dull gray in the east. Albavera and Chance lowered the chute, and let their horses out, Don Melitón following with the third horse. All the mounts were saddled.
Lantern swinging in his hands, Mickey McGee ran down the side of the tracks, and slid to a stop when Don Melitón mounted the horse he had taken from Marathon.
“Hey . . .” McGee began.
“Change of plans, Mickey,” Chance said, swinging into the saddle. During the night, he had taken off his boots—a vaquero’s bullet had knocked off one boot heel—and pulled on a pair of calf-high moccasins, Apache style, from his saddlebags. “Don Melitón’s coming with us.”
“But—”
“He knows La Oveja. Better than anyone. And we only have three horses.”
The lantern lowered as McGee’s shoulders sagged. He pouted. “What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait?”
“Exactly.” The horse spun around, ready to run. Chance had to pull hard on the reins. “Don Melitón’ll need that revolver of yours.”
Slowly, Mickey pulled the revolver from his waistband.
“Loaded?”
“Six beans in the wheel.” He spun the revolver on his finger, and offered the walnut butt to the old man, who took it, flipped open the loading gate, and rotated the cylinder. Chance watched the don, half expecting him to thumb back the hammer and kill him and Albavera, but the man snapped the gate shut, and slipped the revolver inside his sash.
“Have you any extra shells?” the don asked.
Grumbling, McGee reached inside the mule-ear pocket of his trousers, and pulled out a handful of brass cartridges, dropping them in Don Melitón’s palm, watching him slip the bullets in his jacket pocket.
McGee was talking.”You don’t leave a man much, Davy boy.”
“The don’s vaqueros should be here in a couple hours,” Chance said. “It’ll be dawn by then. You send them after us. We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“It’ll take you a couple hours to get there yourself.”
Chance nodded. “More if I keep talking to you.” The horse spun again. “Mickey, if we’re not back by three o’clock, you take that engine, and you go barreling down those tracks. Through Murphyville. You don’t stop until you see that eastbound coming. You tell them what’s happening, what we’re doing. You got enough wood to get you that far?”
His head bobbed, but he said, “Thought you said Savage would have the town watched, that if some unscheduled train rolled through, he’d know his plan ain’t gonna work.”
“He’ll know that in a couple hours anyway,” Chance said, and heeled the side of the black mare. The horse exploded in a fast lope, kicking up dust, hooves pounding the desert floor. Don Melitón Benton followed on the piebald McGee had picked out for himself, and Moses Albavera fell in behind Benton on a sure-footed Appaloosa. McGee watched them in the predawn light until they disappeared over a ridge, then, grumbling like a child who had been rebuked by his parents, kicking stones with the toes of his boots, he walked back to the cab of the hissing locomotive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Flickering light from the candelabra on the adobe wall reflected in the glass Hec Savage raised to the candles. He held it there for a moment studying the liquid, then brought the drink to his lips, satisfied. “Old man Benton makes mighty fine peach brandy, don’t you think, Grace?”
Across the cherry-wood table, Grace Profit shrugged. Her glass remained in front of her, untouched.
Smiling, Savage finished his drink, and fetched a gold watch from his vest pocket. He rose, walked to the keg, and refilled his glass, draining it before he walked back to the table, and stood b
ehind her. He reached over her shoulder, and laid his empty glass beside her full one, then brought his hand back, and rested it on her right shoulder. His left hand fell on her other shoulder, and he began squeezing. Grace stiffened.
“You should relax,” he told her.
“You should get your damned hands off me.”
Savage chuckled. “Would you prefer that greaser Lo Grande’s?” He released her shoulders, and slid on the table so that he faced her. She looked quite lovely. Of course, the room at La Oveja wasn’t well lit, and the shadows hid her blemishes. Not that she wasn’t a handsome woman. More than handsome, actually, and a woman who could take care of herself.
He picked up her glass. “I think this tastes better than that bust-head you serve, Grace.”
“The men I serve aren’t interested in taste. My whiskey gets them drunk. That’s what they want.”
“But you should want more.”
She stared ahead at the wall. Savage reached down, lifted and turned her head with two fingers underneath her chin. “Remember,” he said, “our little conversation on the ride over here? I could buy you a new saloon. A fancy one, with fine drinks.”
He left his hand on her face, but Grace reached over and removed it. Savage could see the candlelight flickering in her pupils, like a rattlesnake’s tongue. Like a serpent’s diamond eyes.
He dropped his hand back to his side. “What would you say if I told you I was about to come into the sum of a quarter of a million dollars?”
“You plan on selling your kingdom of Savage to Germany?”
“No.”
“England?”
He shook his head. “The Southern Pacific is bringing it.”
“I thought you only wanted a hundred thousand from the railroad.”
He laughed again.
“The U.S. Mint needs gold to make its coins. Gold’s often shipped to New York, you know. They take the bullion, sell it on the gold market for greenbacks. There’s two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in bullion due to stop in Murphyville for water and a new crew on its way east.”
West Texas Kill Page 19
