West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Here you go,” she said.

  He took the proffered pewter beer stein with his left hand, and tested the steaming brew. Chance grimaced. “This tastes like crap.”

  “So does our whiskey. That’ll be a two bits.”

  “For coffee?” He fished into his vest pocket for a quarter. “How much is your whiskey?”

  “Same. Everything in here costs two bits. Even a poke.” She grinned at him. Her teeth were darker than his, and she was missing a bottom front one. “If you’s interested.”

  “If a poke’s as crummy as your coffee and whiskey, I’ll pass,” he said.

  Beneath all that rouge, the redhead’s face flushed. Chance thought she might slap him, but she turned in a huff, and strode back to the bar.

  Chance tried another sip of coffee, grimaced, and put the stein on the stove. Walking across the creaking floor, around the roulette table, and past the faro layouts, he leaned against a wooden column beside the poker table.

  The poker table was integrated.

  A fat white man with a whiskey-sodden Roman nose tossed down his cards with a curse, and reached for a bottle of tequila in front of the few chips he had left. He wore an unbuttoned blouse, with the chevrons of an infantry corporal on the sleeves, and a well-worn Army kepi. Across from him, a merchant in a black broadcloth suit, smiled, and raked in the pot. He was a dark-haired man, with a gold Star of David pinned on the coat’s lapel. To the merchant’s right sat another soldier, a cavalry trooper with blond hair and peach fuzz for a mustache. Although Chance could see only the side of the trooper’s face, the kid didn’t look old enough to be in either the Army or a saloon. Next to the trooper sat a Mexican vaquero, smoking a sweet-smelling cheroot. Chance couldn’t see the man’s face, but he didn’t have to. To the right of the infantry corporal sat a woman, who gathered the cards and began shuffling. She wore tinted glasses—though sunlight was rarer than good whiskey in a bucket of blood like that place—and a fashionable ladies riding outfit of garnet and green. The jacket was double-breasted, a brooch pinned above her heart. A riding crop leaned against her chair. She also had a stack of chips larger than anyone else at the table. She looked a hell of a lot better than the redhead who had served him coffee, and Chance decided she probably had all of her teeth. Whiter than his, to be sure.

  A handful of men—black, white, and Mexican—and one of the saloon girls had gathered around the table, watching the lady gambler. Yet it was the final man, sitting between the woman and the merchant, who interested Chance.

  He wore a rakish double-breasted vest the color of Madeira, a black tie with a diamond stickpin under the collar of a fancy cream shirt with black stripes and a tapered bottom bib front. His hat was black, with a horsehair hatband of red, gray and blue. The brim curled at the sides, dipped in the front and back, and had a telescope crown. A linen duster and fringed buckskin coat were draped on the seat of his chair. Both hands rested beneath the table. His eyes locked on Chance.

  He looked to be a large man, broad shouldered, probably would stand a good two inches taller than Chance, and Chance was six-foot-one in his boots. He was a black man, clean shaven except for a thick mustache flecked with gray. His hair was close-cropped. A Seth Thomas watch with a gold chain laid beside his pile of chips, a few gold coins, and some crumpled greenbacks. He hadn’t won as much as the woman, but he had done pretty well. A beer stein was to the man’s right. A slight Mexican saloon girl, probably in her teens, came over and topped the stein with black coffee. The man made no move for the cup. Just sat there, staring at Chance.

  The woman shuffled the cards, passed them to the black man to cut. Without looking at the deck, he raised his right hand, saying, “Thin to win,” and cut the cards. As the woman gathered the deck, Chance stepped away from the wooden column, and spoke in a voice just loud enough to be heard. “Moses Albavera.”

  The woman left the cards on the warped table. The vaquero slid his chair back, and studied Chance. The saloon turned quiet.

  “Do you have business with me?” the black man said in a stentorian voice. He could have been somewhere between thirty and fifty years old.

  “There’s the little matter of a murder warrant,” Chance said.

  The merchant, trooper, and infantry corporal hurriedly left the table. The vaquero slid his chair a little farther out of the line of fire. That was good, Chance thought. It gave him a chance to give the Mexican a quick glance. He was unarmed, merely curious. The woman removed her glasses, and laid them on the table. Her eyes kept darting between Albavera and Chance.

  “Don Melitón send you?” Albavera reached for his coffee stein and took a sip.

  The words surprised Chance, but his face remained granite as he shook his head. “Why would he send me?”

  With a shrug, Albavera said, “He owns Presidio County, I’m told. Owns most of the Big Bend country.” He took another sip of coffee. His left hand remained underneath the table. “And I killed his son two days ago. Down in Shafter.”

  Shafter was a silver-mining town on the eastern edge of the Chinati Mountains, maybe sixty miles south of Fort Davis. Spitting distance from Don Melitón Benton’s rancho.

  “You killed Prince Benton?” Chance couldn’t hide his surprise, even though the old don’s son had always been a heel and was bound to get killed sooner or later.

  “It was a fair fight.”

  Chance admired Albavera’s grit. He had killed Prince Benton, and instead of lighting a shuck for the Mexican border, maybe twenty miles from Shafter, he had ridden north to Fort Davis. Not that it mattered. Don Melitón likely would have tracked Albavera all the way to Cape Horn to avenge his son’s death, no matter how worthless Prince had been.

  “I imagine it was,” Chance said, “but I didn’t know about Prince Benton. Don Melitón didn’t send me.” With his left hand, he tapped the circled five-point star on his vest. “I’m a Texas Ranger. Warrant I’m serving was issued in Galveston.”

  “The Marin brothers?” Now it was Albavera who looked surprised.

  Chance’s head bobbed.

  “Hell, man, that was eight years ago.”

  “Reckon so. But there’s no statute of limitations on a murder charge.”

  “That was a fair fight, too. Fairer even than that Benton punk. There were two Marin brothers, and one of them was about to shoot me in the back.”

  Chance shrugged, and straightened. “I don’t care.”

  “Ranger.” Albavera spoke in a tired voice. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”

  “Good. That’ll make our trip to Galveston much more pleasant.”

  “I don’t want to kill you.”

  The curiosity of the vaquero died. He rose slowly, and joined the crowd.

  “You killing me wouldn’t make our trip pleasant. But me killing you?” Chance dropped his hand by the butt of the Schofield. “You want to put your left arm on the table?”

  The black man’s head shook. “Can’t. It’s holding a sawed-off Springfield rifle that’s pointed at your gut.”

  “That gives you only one shot.”

  Albavera smiled.

  Probably has all his teeth, too, Chance thought.

  The black man said, “That’s all I need.”

  A momentary silence was broken by a shout from the bar. “Five dollars says the Ranger kills him.”

  “I’ll take that bet!” came a reply from one of the old buffalo soldiers at the faro layout.

  Albavera’s eyes hardened. He gathered his money and the pocketwatch, which he dropped into his vest pocket, pushed the chips toward the woman, and spoke in a pleasant voice. “Miss Lottie, I’d like to cash in.”

  “One of you two’s about to do just that,” she said, but collected his chips and counted out a wad of greenbacks, which she shoved to Albavera. That money, too, he pocketed. Then rose.

  The weapon in his massive left hand was, indeed, a sawed-off Springfield, the barrel cut down to an inch past the forearm, the walnut stock carved into a pistol grip deco
rated by brass studs forming a star.

  That impressed Dave Chance. If he tried to shoot a weapon like that, it would probably break his wrist.

  Strapped to a shell belt filled with big brass .45-70 cartridges was a big holster, tied down on Albavera’s left thigh. The man wore striped black britches tucked inside spotless stovepipe boots with white crescent moons inlaid in the tops. No spurs.

  “Drop your gunbelt, Ranger.” Nodding at the weapon he held, Albavera said, “Miss Vickie here will blow a hole in you big enough to drive a Studebaker through.”

  The Springfield, Chance noticed, was cocked.

  “Shoot the damned darky!” another voice cried from the bar.

  Seven tense seconds passed before Chance let out a weary sigh, and unbuckled the russet gunbelt, letting the Schofield drop heavily to the floor.

  “Now, kick it under the table.”

  Chance did as he was instructed.

  “Ladies, gents,” Albavera said, taking a chance, laying the Springfield on the table as he donned his coat, then his duster. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Please don’t anyone stick his or her head out of the door or window. I’d hate to kill anybody on this fine morning. Grounds a little hard to be digging a grave.”

  He picked up the Springfield, tipped his hat at Lottie, smiled at Chance, and backed his way to the door.

  “Why didn’t you make a play for that bastard when he put that big gun of his on the table?” the infantry corporal demanded. “You could have at least tried.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Chance watched Albavera nod once more, turn and run.

  Chance was already sprinting, drawing the Smith & Wesson .32 from his back.

  “Hooray!” called one of the white bettors at the bar.

  “Watch out, mister!” warned one of the old buffalo soldiers at the faro layout.

  “Ten dollars says the colored boy gets away!” someone bet.

  “Five-to-one dollar says there’ll be a double funeral mañana.”

  Chance ran past the door. Outside, he heard the nervous snorts of horses stamping their feet. He weaved around a couple tables, shoved a muleskinner out of his way, jumped onto another table, overturning a pitcher of beer, and dived through the window.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Slivers bit into his neck and arms as he fell in a cascade of broken glass. Horses snorted and stomped. Screams and cackles came from inside the saloon. Sergeant Dave Chance landed with a thud on the hard-packed earth in front of the building—the landlord had been too damned cheap to put up a boardwalk or porch—and immediately rolled to his right, the Smith & Wesson extended in front of him. Surprisingly, his hat remained on his head.

  For a moment, all he saw were the hooves and saddles of the horses tied to the hitching rails. Finally, he made out the gray legs of the Andalusian stallion. Moses Albavera had led the horse away from the other animals and was swinging into the saddle. To Chance’s astonishment, Albavera made no move to shoot him. Saving his shot, Chance figured. He only has one.

  Scrambling to his knees, Chance dived behind a water trough, caught his breath, and made his way to the right corner. He peered around the trough and hindquarters of a small blue roan.

  Albavera threw his left leg in the stirrup, his right hand gripping the saddle horn and reins. His left hand held the sawed-off Springfield as he tried to boost himself into the saddle. He didn’t make it.

  With its girth loosened, the saddle slipped under the big man’s weight, and he crashed to the ground with a thud.

  Inside the saloon, someone groaned. A few of the patrons, the bettors, most likely, had chanced a few looks out the windows and doorway.

  Chance fired a shot into the air, spooking the Andalusian into taking a few steps away from Albavera. Most of the horses at the hitching rails had already been frightened when Chance busted through the plate-glass window. The roan broke its reins, took off south toward Chihuahua. Another bay fell to its knees. On the far side, a claybank reared, jerking the rail from its post, which allowed the ten other mounts to slip free, and take off at a lope down the Overland trail.

  “Hell’s bells!” a cowboy cried out, and busted through the door.

  “Stay inside, you damned fool!” Chance cried. He dived away from the trough, landed on his right shoulder, and drew a bead on Moses Albavera as the black man rose, swinging the Springfield in Chance’s direction.

  The .32 bucked in Chance’s hand. Over the din of noise, he heard the whine of the bullet as it splintered the Springfield’s forearm, and sent the sawed-off rifle spinning toward another water trough, knocking Albavera off balance. The man-killer landed on his buttocks.

  He looked dazed, but only for a moment.

  Chance came to his knees, brought the Smith & Wesson level, and pointed the gun’s short barrel at Albavera’s diamond stickpin. “Don’t move.”

  Albavera didn’t, except for shaking the cobwebs out of his head.

  “Crap!” came a yell from inside the saloon.

  Chance climbed to his feet, keeping the Smith & Wesson trained on the gunman, who grinned and sat with his legs outstretched, his hat still on, and the Andalusian a few rods behind him. Chance’s own horse also had not run.

  “Ranger?” a cowboy asked from the doorway. “Is it all right if we go fetch our horses? The ramrod at the Backward-C-Lazy-Seven won’t take kindly if we come home afoot.”

  “Go ahead.” Chance’s eyes never left Albavera. “Just walk behind my prisoner.”

  A half-dozen cowhands, soldiers, muleskinners, saloon girls, and the woman gambler named Lottie stepped outside. All but the cowboys stayed close to the saloon.

  “You’re a good shot, Ranger,” Albavera said. He pointed at the Springfield. “You do that on purpose?”

  Chance shook his head. “I was aiming for your gut.”

  Albavera’s smile widened. “I figured.” He shook his head again. “Well, I guess I’m your prisoner.”

  Chance never lowered the .32. He watched as Albavera brushed the dirt off his hands on his outstretched pant legs, on the sleeves of his linen duster, then wiped them on the front of his vest. Chance started toward him, heard a cough, shot a glance at the saloon front, then looked back to Albavera. “Damn.”

  Moses Albavera had fished an over-under .41-caliber Remington derringer from his vest pocket. He fired once, the bullet tearing off Chance’s hat as he ducked. Quickly, Chance cut loose, knowing he missed, as he dived to the ground. He rolled, came up, and saw Albavera rounding the corner of the saloon. Chance held his shot.

  Someone in front of the saloon whistled with appreciation.

  Chance’s revolver was a five-shot, but he always kept the chamber under the hammer empty. He had fired three times, leaving him with one round. Fishing out a few extra shells from his vest pocket, he quickly reloaded the top-break .32, giving him five shots to Albavera’s one round left in the double-shot Remington.

  Unless, he realized, Albavera had reloaded the derringer.

  He walked back to the water trough and picked up the Springfield in his left hand. The sawed-off rifle appeared to be in working condition. His slug had only splintered the forearm a bit. Stepping toward the saloon, he pulled back the hammer of the big gun. He tried to think.

  The two-story saloon lay in pretty much open country, with some outhouses behind it, and a few adobe structures off to the north. More buildings lay south, before Chihuahua, but Albavera would be in open country if he made his run that way. Behind the saloon there was nothing but open prairie for a good three hundred yards, then a barbed-wire fence that would offer no cover. Beyond that rose a mountain, but the mountain was treeless. If Albavera went that way, he’d be a sitting duck.

  Chance decided Albavera’s only shot at escape lay right by the saloon. He’d want to get that Andalusian, if he could; if not, then one of the horses that hadn’t spooked. He’d make his escape then. First, however, he’d have to kill Dave Chance.

  “Reckon you got a choice, Ranger,” a burly bla
ck man said, grinning a toothless smile. “Which corner of this building you wanna stick your head around. Which corner won’t get your head blowed clean off.”

  Chance pointed the barrel of the sawed-off Springfield at the man’s big belly. “Anybody here shouts a warning,” he said calmly, “I’ll kill him.” He looked at Lottie. “Or her.” He pushed his way past the crowd, and entered the saloon.

  The beer-jerker behind the bar scowled at him as Chance made his way to the poker table. He couldn’t blame him. Nobody in the saloon was ordering anything to drink, and the roulette wheel, faro layouts, and poker table were empty. Underneath the table, he found his gunbelt. He buckled it on, checked the Schofield, and headed for the stairs, feeling he had enough firepower to handle Moses Albavera.

  All eyes were on the Ranger as he made his way up the steps to the second level.

  He picked the center door facing the back, hoping the room had a window. Quietly he turned the knob, pushed open the door slightly, and entered—.32 first.

  The room appeared to be an office. A lawyer’s bookcase stood by the door, a roll-top desk was in the center opposite a couple of reception chairs covered in silk damask. Pretty fancy for a grog shop. Behind the desk was a window that drew Chance’s attention. Leaving the door open, he eased his way across the creaking floorboards to the desk, then to the window.

  The walls, of course, were thin. To his left, he heard the squeaking of bedsprings, and a woman’s giggles—which was what he had expected to find in the room he was in. Apparently, the happenings downstairs and outside held no interest for the amorous couple next door. He started to gently push back the drapes, when a noise to his right stopped him.

  Behind the walls came the groan of a window, followed by a woman’s gasp. “What the hell?” He heard her clearly. Then, “Moses . . . what are you—”

  He even heard Albavera’s desperate “Shhh. Quiet, Ramona. Quiet.”