Water splashed against the man’s paling face, and his eyes fluttered open as he groaned. Reaching for his left arm, he found it wrapped tightly with a dirty rag torn from his shirt. The three men standing above him slowly came into focus. Beyond them stood the puta from Terlingua.
Don Melitón dropped the gourd ladle, and knelt beside the bandit. He spoke softly in Spanish. The Mexican, growing defiant, snapped a response.
The don cuffed him with his backhand. He asked the same question in the same tone.
The Mexican swallowed. He asked for water.
Don Melitón’s head shook. He repeated the question.
That time, the Mexican answered.
“They left last night,” the don translated.
The Mexican spoke again, rapidly, fervently, until he was out of breath. His face became a mask of pain. Groaning, he reached over and tugged on his left shoulder, pulling up his knees, biting his bottom lip. He gasped out something else.
“He asks if I will carry his confession to his priest in San Pedro,” Don Melitón said.
“We don’t have that much time,” Albavera said.
The don spoke again. The Mexican stared at him, lips trembling, tears streaming down his face, and he answered. Then began crossing himself, muttering a prayer, a confession. Whatever it was he was saying, he never finished, for Don Melitón drew the revolver he had retrieved from the dead bandit’s back, thumbed back the hammer, and while Chance was reaching for the pistol, shouting, “No, damn it, no!” the gun roared, so close it burned the Mexican’s face. The bullet tore through the man’s nose and blew out the back of his skull.
“Damn it!” Chance swore, kicking a loose stone across the grounds. “Damn you all to hell, Don Melitón.”
Albavera hooked a thumb at Chance stomping back and forth. “In case you were wondering, old man, he wanted him alive.”
“This pendejo,” the don said tightly, “killed Miguel Aquiles and Romolo, the grandson of my sheepherder.” He shoved the revolver into his sash, his hands trembling, his eyes welling with tears. “Romolo was only thirteen years old. This hijo de la puta did not deserve to draw another breath for one second longer. He and his amigo”—Don spat in the direction of the dead fat man, still on the portal in a lake of drying blood—“came back here to ravage this woman”—he pointed at Linda—“and then kill her.”
“Why did they leave her alive?” Albavera asked.
“Captain Savage.”
The woman’s voice startled the three men. They seemed to have remembered her presence only when she spoke.
“Lo Grande was going to kill me. Captain Savage said no. He wouldn’t let him.” She sank to her knees, and began sobbing.
Chance slipped between the don and Albavera, knelt beside the crying prostitute, and put his arm around her shoulder. “That’s all right, ma’am. Go ahead and cry. Let those tears run their course.”
She buried her head into his shoulder. He put his other arm around her back, pulled her close, and squeezed her tightly.
They had ignored her. Well, not ignored. They’d left her alone. It hadn’t occurred to them, as frightened as she had appeared, so wrecked, so brutalized, to ask her anything. Until she had spoken.
“Was Grace here?” he asked.
“Yes,” was her choked reply.
“Where . . . ?” Chance couldn’t finish.
“The captain took her.” She straightened, twisted her head, bit her lip, and sucked in a deep breath. When she exhaled, she said, “Captain Savage said he might need her. In case something went wrong.”
“They’re going to rob the Southern Pacific?” Chance asked.
She nodded.
“Murphyville?”
“I’m not sure.”
Albavera cleared his throat. “Train’s not due in Murphyville till Sunday. That—”
“That’s not true.” She shook her head. “I heard them talking. Savage was talking to Grace. Lo Grande had me. We listened outside the door. Then we went inside.”
“The train’s due Sunday, ma’am,” Chance said.
She shook her head again. “That’s just what they wanted everybody to think. The train’s due”—she swallowed—“Saturday.”
Today!
Chance fell back against the corral post. He brought his pointer finger to his mouth, considering what Linda Kincaid had just told him. He looked up at Albavera, then over to the don.
“No, now I remember.” Linda’s head bobbed. “Captain Savage said he’d ride those rails all the way to Sanderson. He said that when we were listening, Lo Grande and me. They are going to Murphyville. I guess they’ll take the eastbound to Sanderson.”
Chance reached over his head, gripped a pole, and pulled himself to his feet. “The schedule at Marathon said Sunday.” He looked at Albavera for confirmation.
The Moor nodded. “But a couple S.P. workers from Sanderson told me they were ordered to get that telegraph wire repaired by Saturday. Said it twice.” He tilted his head at Linda Kincaid. “I think she’s right. Railroad brass, the law, they wanted everyone to think the train would be coming in a day later than it really is.”
“Or this is a special run.”
“Regular train comes through Sunday. Sure. That makes sense.”
“Savage will leave the train in Sanderson.”
Albavera was nodding. “I saw a bunch of freight wagons in town. Empty. Right by the railroad tracks.”
“But there is no town to speak of south of Sanderson,” Don Melitón spoke. “That is Coahuila. Lo Grande never goes that far east. He is a Chihuahua man.”
Chance wet his lips. “Maybe that wasn’t part of Lo Grande’s plan.”
“It wasn’t.” Linda Kincaid told them of the conversation she had heard in the dining room of La Oveja just hours earlier.
They grained and watered their horses. Chance tightened the cinch on the saddle of the buckskin the fat Mexican had ridden in on, and took Linda Kincaid’s hand, helped her into the saddle, then swung up on the black mare.
“We’ll never make it to Murphyville in time,” Albavera said as he mounted his horse.
“I don’t intend to try.”
Albavera’s eyes brightened. “The train. Mickey McGee.”
Chance nodded.
The don mounted his horse.
Turning to Linda, Chance said, “Miss Kincaid, we’re going to have to ride mighty hard, over some rough country. You sure you don’t want to stay here?”
Her eyes told him she never wanted to see La Oveja again.
Chance bit his lip. He didn’t like it. But he had no choice.
He tugged on the rein, started to urge the black out of the compound, when a bullet tore off the horn on his saddle. The bay mare pitched, but Chance was already flying out of the saddle, the Schofield practically leaping into his right hand.
He hit hard in a cloud of dust. Horses screamed. Bullets whined. Albavera cursed, came past him, jerked Linda Kincaid from the saddle, and fell on top of her.
Chance rolled over. Dust stung his eyes. He blinked, making his eyes hurt worse. A bullet clipped the snubbing post in the corral. Chance crawled to the side of the well, came up in a seated position, filled his lungs, and tried to find a target.
As the wind took the dust away, he saw Don Melitón dropping the reins to his horse, calling out something in Spanish, standing in the open, unafraid. The Colt revolver remained in the old man’s sash. He continued to speak in Spanish, walking toward the open gate, holding his hands over his head, palms outward. Not offering to surrender, but telling those shooters in the walnuts and cottonwoods to hold their fire.
Suddenly, it hit Chance. Those bullets hadn’t come from Juan Lo Grande’s men, or Hec Savage’s. They were the don’s vaqueros, who had made damned good time.
“It’s all right,” Chance called over to Albavera.
He started to holster the .45, started to stand, then thought better of it. He shot Albavera a worried glance.
He mouthed t
he words, “Or is it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Thick clouds of smoke belched out of the 4-4-0 American Standard locomotive as it slowed, hissing steam. It groaned to a stop in front of the Murphyville depot, which was nothing more than an old piece of rolling stock that had been set up alongside the iron rails. Hec Savage gripped a lamppost and leaned over, checking out the rest of the train.
A tender. Three cars. A caboose.
Good. No passengers. Except for the guards behind those bolted doors of the boxcars.
He swung back, nodding a good morning at the smut-faced engineer and fireman as they climbed out of the engine and onto the platform. Two of Savage’s men were already bringing down the arm to the water tank over the tender, jerking the chain, letting water replenish the tank. The fireman went over to help, but one of the Rangers, Tom O’Brien, told him, “That’s all right, pal. Me and Joe’s got it. Go get yourself some breakfast.”
“Thanks,” the fireman said. “Reckon we’ll do just that.”
From the caboose came a fat man, panting, as he hurried alongside the tracks.
So far, so good. Letting out a sigh of relief, Savage looked across the street at Murphyville.
The town rested in a valley in the Davis Mountains foothills, most of it along a creek that ran along the foot of a small mountain. Tents and dugouts were slowly being replaced by adobe structures, log cabins, even a few frame buildings with their whitewashed false fronts. Typically, the streets and saloons would be full on a Saturday, with railroaders, cowhands, and the wives and daughters of ranchers coming in to do their shopping. That morning, however, the streets were empty. Every shade of every building along Front Street was pulled shut. Even the bakery hadn’t opened, although the fireman and engineer crossing the street hadn’t noticed yet.
The good residents of Murphyville knew their place, and their place that day was inside. They’d seen or heard Savage and Lo Grande and their men ride into town before dawn.
“Are you Capt’n Savage?” The conductor whipped a handkerchief, already sopping wet, from the pocket of his corduroy jacket, and mopped his face.
Savage tapped his badge. “I am.”
The man started talking, but Savage hardly listened. He was looking over the fat man’s shoulder, staring at those cars, wondering if one of the doors would open. They didn’t.
“Who are those men?” the fat man blurted out.
When he turned, Savage saw Doc Shaw and Oliver Drago climbing into the 4-4-0’s cab.
“Relief for your crew,” Savage told him.
“I don’t know ’em.”
“You know every engineer and boiler-man on the Southern Pacific?”
The man returned the wet handkerchief to his pocket. “I know Dickie Gleason. He’s supposed to be replacin’ Aaron West here. Hey! Hey, you there!”
He charged forward like a bull, pointing a stout finger at Doc Shaw, who hung out of the cab’s opening, staring, uncertain.
“Where the hell’s Dickie Gleason?” the man boomed.
“Dead.” Savage’s answer stopped him. He spun around, and his mouth opened in protest when he spotted the Merwin Hulbert in Savage’s right hand. “Join him.”
The .44 cut short the fat man’s cry. Savage waved the barrel of the smoking gun at Shaw, motioning him to hurry, and started off the platform. He never bothered looking at the man he’d just shot, nor the engineer and fireman as they stopped in the middle of Front Street, halfway to the bakery. A cannonade erupted from the alley between the hotel and butcher’s shop, and the two railroaders crumpled into the dirt.
Rangers P.G. Foner, Harry Jones, and Munge McSween quickly joined Savage in mid-stride as the other Rangers poured out of the boxcar-turned-depot. From behind the barn and livery, Mexican bandits rode up and down Front Street. Others leaped from their hiding places in the alleys, or on rooftops.
Savage and his three men reached the first car. He looked across the street, nodded, and saw Juan Lo Grande fire a round that sang off the coupling. Savage banged the butt of his .44 against the door.
“Open up, Lieutenant. It’s me. Hec Savage. Texas Rangers.”
No answer. Another bullet thudded in the car above Savage’s head.
“Damn it, open up!” He nodded an unspoken order at Foner, Jones, and McSween, and the Rangers jerked out their revolvers. They fired at the Mexican raiders—the bullets flying harmlessly well over their heads.
“Open up!” Savage thundered.
Above the din of gunfire, the pounding of hooves, and the whistling from the engine, Savage thought he heard a reply. “I have my orders.”
Savage rammed the Merwin Hulbert harder. “The hell with your orders. We’re under attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
Savage swore under his breath. He looked at Harry Jones, and shot him in the groin.
Jones fell, gripping his crotch, screaming in agony. The faces of Foner and McSween turned pale. They stopped shooting and stared at Savage, wondering if they’d catch the next bullet.
“Damn it, Lieutenant!” Savage yelled. “My men are getting cut to pieces out here.” Another bullet punctuated his statement. So did Jones’s pitiful wails.
“The game’s up,” Savage said. “Let us in. Else we’re all dead.”
On the ground at Savage’s feet, Jones began pulling a Colt from his holster. Savage shot him in the head.
“For the love of God, man!” Savage banged on the door again.
The door opened, and a young man in a blue blouse and trousers reached down, offering Savage his gloved right hand. Another man knelt beside the lieutenant, jacked a round in his Winchester, and fired, knocking one of Lo Grande’s men out of the saddle.
Savage let the lieutenant pull him inside. He hit the floor, rolled over, and filled his lungs with the musty air from the cramped, dark boxcar. P.G. Foner and Munge McSween went in right behind him, and the door slammed shirt. The lieutenant rammed the bolt shut, but not before the man with the Winchester fired another shot.
“This all the men you got?” Savage asked. He counted four, not including the lieutenant.
“Six each in the other two cars.” The lieutenant had broad shoulders, a hawk-beak nose, pockmarked face, and a cleft in his chin.
The train lurched forward, slamming the lieutenant against the wall. He caught himself, did a little dance, and regained his balance.
“Where’s the Gatling gun?” Savage asked.
“Right here, Capt’n,” an Irishman answered. He was feeding a magazine into the top of the gun.
“We’re moving,” the lieutenant said.
Just like that, the train stopped, and the lieutenant stumbled forward. Savage managed to catch him, keeping him upright. The man stank of sweat, his breath smelling like a week’s worth of cigarettes.
“Thanks,” the lieutenant began, but the word caught in his throat as he felt the Merwin Hulbert’s muzzle pressed against his stomach. The gun roared, igniting the blue blouse, and the lieutenant fell on his back, choking on the blood that filled his throat, and poured from the corners of his mouth.
Munge McSween shot the Irishman by the Gatling gun. P.G. Foner rammed a Bowie knife to the hilt underneath the ribs of the guard closest to him, ripped the blade loose, and slashed the throat of another man, who was fumbling with the flap on his holster. Savage and McSween shot the last man at the same time, Savage’s bullet tearing into the redhead’s heart, McSween’s piercing his back.
Smoke filled the car, stinging the eyes of each Ranger. Savage grabbed a hat off the floor, and beat out the flames on the dead lieutenant’s chest. He made a beeline for the door, coughing, then telling McSween, “Get that Gatling ready. Move it to the door. Cover the street.”
Light shown through as the door swung open, and Savage leaped down from the car, holstering his revolver, and moving down the tracks toward the next boxcar. Lo Grande’s men stayed in the streets, or on the roofs, peppering the final car with gunshots. Savage tried to still his heart
, found himself sweating like that conductor he’d left dead on the platform. He looked down at the depot, saw Demitrio Ahern hurrying Grace Profit out of the building, off the platform.
“Take her to the caboose,” Savage ordered. “Be damned quick.”
Ahern rushed past Savage, half dragging Grace behind him, and shoved her onto the platform at the back of the caboose, then turned, thumbed back the hammer of his Sharps, and stood there waiting.
Joe Newton and Tom O’Brien, who had been filling the tank with water, scrambled into the tender, and lay atop the pile of wood, aiming Winchesters at Lo Grande’s men.
From the livery stable ran Steve Coffman, Bill Barr, and J.K. Scheidner, hauling buckets in each hand, liquid sloshing on the streets, splashing their chaps as they ran. Coffman and Barr doused the side of the second car. Scheidner ran to the third car, threw the contents from his two buckets onto the bullet-riddled frame of that car.
Savage shot another glance at Lo Grande, then used the butt of his .44 as a knocker.
The gunfire fell silent.
“All right, gents,” he said. “We’ve just given this box car a bath of coal oil. I don’t have much time. You step out, and live. Or you stay in, and fry.” With his left hand, he pulled out his pocket watch, opened the case, and said, “You have ten seconds to make up your minds, or burn alive.”
He wet his lips.
“One. Two.”
Those guards had their orders, just like the guards who worked for the express companies. Stay in the express car (fortified special boxcars, in this case). Keep the door locked. Open it for no one. If someone breaches the door, kill him. Defend that payroll with your life.
Hell of a price to pay for fifty dollars a month.
“Three. Four.”
The door opened. A revolver flew out. Then a handful of Springfield rifles and other pistols. Six men eased through the door, and jumped down, hands held high. They stood there, panting, praying, and sweating.
“If I were you,” Savage said, “I’d go that way.” He pointed at the opening between the two cars. “You head to that street, Juan Lo Grande will kill you.”
West Texas Kill Page 21
