West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Chance extended his hand. Albavera took it, letting the Ranger pull him to his feet.

  “You look like crap,” Albavera said, wiping blood off his forehead.

  “You’re no Mona Lisa.” Chance grimaced as pain shot up his left arm, which dangled uselessly at his side.

  “What’s the matter with your arm?”

  “Broken.”

  “Wonder we didn’t both break our necks.” He shoved the Springfield into the holster. They took three steps, and stopped.

  Black smoke belched out of the Schenectady locomotive as it sped down the tracks. Beyond that, another black 4-4-0 engine began screaming, whistle blaring, brakes sounding. About fifty yards from the tracks, Don Melitón’s vaqueros reined in their horses.

  The engine driven by Mickey McGee picked up more speed as he opened the throttle. As the other train tried to stop, men leaped from the top of the tender, out of the cab, and from one of the boxcars. At the last moment, Mickey McGee hurled himself out of the Schenectady engine.

  “Christ Jesus Almighty,” Dave Chance said, and closed his eyes. Doubt seized his mind. What if I’m wrong? What if Savage and Lo Grande didn’t rob that train? What . . . then?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The American Standard had slowed to a crawl when the Schenectady, going wide open, slammed into it with a crushing, earsplitting impact that lifted the Standard’s rear wheels off the track, and sent the cattle car pulled by the Schenectady flipping over violently on the northern side of the tracks, the tender toppling over to the side. The Standard’s drive wheels landed, and the engine fell on its side on the southern side of the track.

  Tom O’Brien, the Ranger who had dived off the top of the tender before the trains collided, was trying to drag himself away. He turned, raising both hands as the 4-4-0 toppled on him, silencing his screams.

  The first boxcar rammed into the tender, slamming it off the tracks on the northern side. Smashed and splintered, it fell on top of the tender. The second car also lurched to the northern side, rolling over on its top, side, top, before landing near the cattle car from the westbound train. The final boxcar cartwheeled over the wreckage of the Schenectady, collapsing the roof on impact. The caboose spun off to the southern side, flipped twice, coming to a rest on its wheels, which sank deep into the sand. Almost immediately, smoke poured from the open back door, then flames consumed the rear of the caboose. Flames also shot out from the wreckage of the second boxcar. Dust and smoke quickly obscured the scene.

  It had happened in only seconds.

  Then the boiler of the Schenectady exploded.

  The eruption rocked the desert valley, sending chunks of metal and wood through the air like grapeshot. Two Rangers stumbling from the wreckage were cut down, a spray of pink mist marking their demise. On the southern side of the tracks, Don Melitón’s vaqueros tried to control their horses. One mount fell dead, killed by a piece of metal that had penetrated its brain, pinning its rider under its dead weight. Another horse sent its rider sailing over his head, and took off in a gallop south, away from the carnage.

  The explosion from the boiler knocked Chance off his feet. He staggered upright, holding his left arm, biting back pain. Ahead of him ran Moses Albavera, the Springfield in his hands. Chance cried out, and took a few steps, not knowing how much more he could endure, how much farther he could go. He pushed himself, then tripped. His legs refused to run. He careened along the sides of the tracks, chest heaving, arm throbbing, head pounding, ears ringing. Again he spit out blood, caught the scent of smoke, of death, and stopped beside a body lying a few rods from the rails.

  Kneeling, Chance rested his right arm on Mickey McGee’s shoulder. The Irishman’s eyes fluttered open. “Hey, Davy. We stop ’em?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at McGee’s legs, tucked underneath him at an ungodly angle.

  “Them was the Constantine boys, wasn’t they?” Blood seeped from the corners of the railroader’s mouth, out of his nose, and ears.

  The Constantines? That was a long time ago. “Yeah.” Chance squeezed the shoulder. McGee didn’t respond. Probably couldn’t feel anything.

  “I got Robert good, didn’t I? Was Robert I got, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.” Chance smiled weakly. “You stoved in his head with that sledgehammer.”

  “Better than drivin’ spikes.” McGee tried to grin, but coughed up a bloody froth. “Saved your life, didn’t I?”

  Chance nodded, pushed himself to his feet, and looked down the track at the bedlam.

  “I bet the T&P’ll give us all medals. I got Robert. You gunned down Will. Hell, I didn’t even know you was packin’ iron, Davy. Never seen you shoot a revolver before.”

  “Mickey,” he said, not daring to look back at his friend’s wrecked body. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I know, pard. You go on. You get Greg Constantine. Get him for me. I’ll just rest . . . shut my eyes . . . for a wee bit.”

  Chance moved away, drawing the Schofield, coming to the hissing, creaking, steaming overturned American Standard engine. He looked across the tracks. Flames had enveloped the Southern Pacific car, had spread to the ruins of the nearby cattle car that the Schenectady had been pulling. Above the smell of grease, of oil, came the stench of burning flesh from inside that boxcar. Again, Chance closed his eyes.

  The report of a pistol snapped him back to his senses.

  Pushing himself away from the wrecked engine, he saw the surviving Rangers running toward Don Melitón’s men, firing, charging. Up ahead, Moses Albavera had dropped into a prone position, fired the sawed-off Springfield, and rolled onto his back, trying to feed another shell into the breech.

  Chance shook his head. He staggered on, fell to his knees, and looked at the other cars. “Damn you, Mickey. You didn’t tell me you planned on ramming that train. Derailing it might have injured some people, but not like this.

  “Grace!” he called out.

  Down the way a horseman stopped, slashed out with a large Bowie knife at a Ranger, but the horse stepped in a hole, and down went horse and rider. The Ranger, wearing a cap, not a hat, leaped over. They disappeared in the dust. When the horse stood up, and the dust had settled, it was Doc Shaw leaning low in the saddle, furiously whipping the horse with his Sharps, galloping south.

  Shaw was getting away, but where was Hec Savage? In which car?

  Chance looked back at the mass of metal that had been a 4-4-0. He had seen two men leap from the engine before the collision. Captain Savage wouldn’t have been there. That was too far from the gold. He looked at the smoke rising from one of the cars. Remembered the smell of burning flesh. Choked down bile.

  The first car? The one lying on the other side of the tracks, by the tender? Maybe. He looked at the final car, crushed into kindling. Saw the smoke from the caboose. Saw the door shudder two times, three, then kick open.

  Maybe Savage is dead? No, not that son of a bitch.

  Vaqueros thundered across the rails from the northern side of the tracks. The last one reined in beside the caboose, and fired a round from the Spencer. Smoke and flame belched from the doorway, and the rider slid from the saddle. The horse turned, started to run, but stayed, held by the reins wrapped around the dead vaquero’s wrists.

  Suddenly, Chance’s vision blurred. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and let his eyes open again. The flaming caboose was spinning, faster, faster, faster.

  Chance looked at the pistol he held. He saw three Schofields, three hands, and then they, too, went blurry, and started spinning. He tried another tentative step, felt the Schofield slipping from his fingers, and crashed, falling hard, the warm sand rushing up to meet him.

  Some woman was screaming. Grace wanted to tell whoever it was to shut the hell up. She opened her eyes, coughed from the thick smoke that stung her eyes, burned her lungs, her throat, and realized that those screams were coming from herself.

  Determinedly, she made her mouth close, and the screaming stopped. She heard the crackling of woo
d, then a terrific explosion. The earth moved beneath her and she fell backwards. She pulled herself up, and fell immediately back onto the floor, her ankles burning with intense pain. Something trickled down her cheek, and she smelled, then tasted, blood.

  Lifting her head, she tried to remember where she was. The caboose. The train.

  She remembered.

  Feeling the pain in her ankles again, she began swatting the smoldering hem of her skirt. At first, she thought they were on fire, but no. She reached up, found something to grip—the edge of the desk—and pulled herself up to her knees. Heat began to sear the side of her face, and she could smell the sickening stench of burning hair. She crawled across the floor, strewn with debris, away from the fire.

  Suddenly, she realized something else, and desperation gripped her. If she didn’t get out of that damned car, she’d be burned alive. She tried to stand, but the pain in her ankles shot up her legs, and she almost fainted. She dragged herself farther away from the thick smoke, the intense flames. Something stopped her. Turning, she saw the smashed face of the Ranger, Scheidner, his eyes open, only no longer seeing. She wouldn’t have recognized him if not for the stethoscope hanging from his neck.

  She choked back a cry, made herself crawl over his dead body, and touched something else, cold and hard.

  The heavy bar of gold, the reflection of the flames shimmering.

  Above her, fire swept across the ceiling. She made herself move faster, until she had backed into the wall. Turning, she saw the door, and she slid toward it. Reaching up, she gripped the knob, hot from the heat of the fire. The knob turned, and she pushed with her back against the door. It didn’t budge. She bit her lip, sucked in fiery air that burned her lungs and made her cough. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed on the door again, harder, feeling the searing heat from the flames, choking on the smoke.

  That woman started screaming again.

  Something smashed her hand, and she let go of the knob, hearing a man curse. She opened her eyes, but could see little from the smoke. A hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up. The door flew open. Something popped. A gun. A revolver detonated close to her ear, leaving her momentarily deaf. The grip on her shoulder was released, and she fell onto the platform, sucking in cool, fresh air as she tried to pull her legs out of the burning caboose.

  She thought she heard spurs singing out, heading back into the coach, then returning. Rough hands lifted her, and shoved her down the steps. She fell onto the dirt, and let out a loud yelp. Rolling over, clawing, pulling herself away from the burning caboose, she saw the hooves of a horse. A Mexican lying nearby was facedown, the reins wrapped around his wrist.

  Boots thudded beside her. She heard another shot, smelled gunpowder. A horse raced by her, and she saw a rider, his boot caught in one stirrup, dragged through the creosote and prickly pear.

  Suddenly, Grace felt herself being lifted.

  “Come on!” a voice rang out, but she could barely make out the words. She looked, blinked, and realized she was being held by Captain Hec Savage. His nose was a bloody pulp, and a wicked gash creased his forehead.

  Her head shook.

  “Move!” She heard clearly him that time.

  “I . . . can’t.” Biting back tears, she cried, “My . . . legs!”

  “Damn.” He grabbed her, and half dragged her to the horse.

  “Hold it!” That wasn’t Savage. Somebody else’s voice sounded like it was coming from the deepest well.

  A gun roared underneath Grace’s arm. A groan followed, then a gasp, and a horse’s whinny. The sound of something crashing to the ground was followed by the pounding of hooves.

  She smelled the stink of leather and sweat.

  “Get on!” Savage commanded.

  “I can’t,” Grace wailed.

  Savage cursed again. Holding her upright, he swung into the saddle. He reached down, pulled Grace up, throwing her arms and head over to the side, her stomach pressed between the saddle horn and the horse’s neck. A rough hand slammed into her back, and stayed there. The gun roared again, then she felt herself bouncing around like a sack of grain, her head smashing against the horse. She smelled dust, vomited.

  That woman wasn’t screaming anymore. She was cussing like a railroader.

  Moses Albavera ran, holding the Springfield with both hands. He watched a Ranger ahead of him drop to his knee, bring up a Colt, saw the flash from the muzzle, and felt a bullet zip past his ear. Barely aiming, Albavera pointed the sawed-off rifle, and fired. The Ranger jerked, and fell hard on his back. As Albavera ran past him, he glanced at the dead man, recognizing him from Marathon. He had been one of those guys with Savage. What was the name? Newton. That’s right. Newton.

  Worthless bastard.

  Not even slowing his pace, Albavera pushed out a bullet from the shell belt, and worked open the breech.

  Riders came barreling across the flats from the west, from Murphyville.

  Albavera slid to a stop. He wet his lips. “Who in the hell . . . ?”

  He realized the answer before he had finished asking the question. Quickly, he came to his feet, signaling at Don Melitón’s vaqueros, waving the Springfield in the direction of the approaching riders. “Lo Grande! Lo Grande!” he yelled, pointing at the men.

  A vaquero looked at him, then toward the riders, and shouted something in Spanish.

  Several horses wheeled. One rider slipped from the saddle, then jacked a fresh round into the Spencer. The vaqueros opened up, spilling two—no, three—of Lo Grande’s men from their saddles.

  Albavera’s rifle had been reloaded, and he didn’t even remember doing it. He pulled back the hammer, dropped to his knee, aimed—but stopped himself. They were still out of range for a sawed-off rifle.

  A horse whinnied, and Albavera turned, falling on his back, raising the Springfield. About a dozen riders came loping in from the east. More of Lo Grande’s men?

  Then we’re finished.

  Albavera sat up, and let out a cheer. They were white men. Railroaders from Sanderson. That merchant, Kipperman, and some other gents from Marathon—including the burly Mexican who’d damn near gutted Chance with a pitchfork when they had first arrived in Marathon.

  They galloped past, firing, charging the Mexicans of Lo Grande.

  Albavera stood. Letting the dust pass, he looked left, right. “Where the hell is Dave?” He realized he had asked the question verbally, though nobody could hear him. He turned, running behind the dust, hearing the gunfire, then a shout, “¡Ándale! ¡Ándale!” Through the dissipating dust, he saw, just like that, the Mexican bandits turning their horses, galloping south.

  A bullet whined off a rock. Another Ranger screamed. Dropping his gun, he ran, stopped, and lifted his hands over his head.

  The roof of the caboose collapsed as Albavera drew near. Turning his head, he shielded his face from the sparks and smoke that flew into the sky. When he lowered his arms, he saw the body of a vaquero lying near the ruins of the caboose. Then he saw another man, lying faceup in the sun, a gun in his hand, a bullet in his chest.

  Albavera lowered his Springfield, tried to shove it in the holster, but missed, and let the weapon fall into the dirt. He swallowed, as best he could with a throat so dry, and kneeling, put his hand on the shoulder.

  The eyes opened.

  “¡Paren a ese hombre!” came a cry, and Albavera looked up. Vaqueros galloped or sprinted in his direction, every damned Spencer among them aimed at him. Keeping his right hand on the shoulder of the man lying in front of him, he raised his left hand into the air, and looked back down at Don Melitón Benton.

  The old man moved his lips, spit out a little trickle of blood, and said, “Don’t worry.”

  Albavera eyes returned to those vaqueros coming at him. He quickly studied the area, hoping to find Dave Chance, or maybe Mickey McGee. He saw neither. He figured they were both dead . . . and that he’d likely soon join them.

  “If it’s just the same to you, Don Melitón,” he said
in a dull whisper, “I reckon I’ll worry some. I reckon I’ll worry a hell of a lot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “You’re a real ugly son of a bitch to wake up to.”

  Dave Chance ground his teeth against the pain shooting through his left arm, and let Moses Albavera gently pull his right arm until he was sitting in the sand by the railroad tracks. His vision blurred for a moment, and the air stank of death, of burning wood and oil. Smoke from the wreckage drifted across the sky like clouds. Horses snorted, stamped their hooves, and whinnied nervously. A few men cried piteously, “Agua . . . agua . . . por favor . . .” Men walked among the bodies and debris was strewn across the desert flats.

  Chance screamed his bloody head off.

  He practically doubled over when Albavera set the broken arm, spitting out tears and curses, pushing himself back up, slowly realizing that his left arm didn’t hurt quite as bad as it had. After he caught his breath, he gave Albavera the coldest stare he could muster.

  Albavera grinned. “Next time, you might watch who you’re calling a real ugly son of a bitch. Especially considering how much your face has been worked over. Here. Let me brace that arm. I’ll fashion a sling out of a bandana.”

  “I didn’t know you were a doctor.”

  “I’m not. But I got plenty of experience in accidents.”

  “Where’s Grace?” Chance asked after Albavera had braced the arm with a dead cactus limb and eased it through a bandana he had looped and tied around Chance’s’s neck.

  “Savage took her with him.” Albavera jutted his jaw south.