West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Smiling, Chance looked out the window and saw a ladder leaning against the saloon. Carefully, he set the Springfield and Smith & Wesson on the desktop, and quietly knelt, pulling off his boots, careful to keep the jinglebobs on his spurs from chiming. Finished, he rose, picked up both weapons, and quietly picked his way across the floor in his stocking feet, halting at the door. He put his left ear against the wall.

  For a moment, all he heard were the clanks of glass and muffled conversations on the floor below. The squeaking and giggles from the room on the left had stopped, but the voices came clearly.

  “How was that, Judy?”

  “That’ll be two bits, sugar.”

  The right-hand door opened. Boots creaked on the floor. The conversations and noise downstairs immediately ceased.

  Chance held his breath, waiting, listening as the boots neared. Moses Albavera’s broad back came into view. He held a Remington in his right hand, his left gripping the balustrade, watching below. The big man kept walking, not bothering to look at the doors on the east wall. Chance waited until the man’s back was even with the Springfield rifle in his left hand.

  “Drop your derringer, Moses,” Chance said. “Miss Vickie here will blow a hole in you big enough to drive a Studebaker through.”

  Surprisingly, Moses Albavera laughed, and dropped the Remington on the floor.

  “Kick it under the railing.”

  “It might go off.”

  “It might. Kick it.”

  Albavera swept his foot, and the little hideaway pistol dropped to the first floor with a thud. It didn’t discharge.

  “Reckon we think alike, Ranger,” Albavera said. “Guess that’s my mistake.”

  “We’re even then,” Chance said. “My mistake was taking my eyes off you for a second outside. Gave you a chance to palm that derringer. Were you aiming at my hat?”

  Albavera’s head shook. “I was aiming for your head.”

  “Don’t move.” Chance stepped out of the doorway and prodded Albavera’s back with the Springfield’s barrel. The door behind him opened. Without looking at the prostitute, Chance said, “Ramona, would you be so kind as to go into that office and fetch my boots?”

  No answer.

  “Do it, Ramona,” Albavera said. “Do it for old Moses here.”

  She did as she was told, and the other door opened. A young cowboy’s head appeared in the crack. Behind him was the curious face of a whore.

  Slowly, Albavera drew a quarter from his vest pocket and tossed it in front of the door. “Y’all go have yourself another quickie. Old Moses’s treat.”

  The door slammed shut.

  Halfway down the stairs Chance made Albavera stop while he hurriedly pulled on his boots. He gathered both guns, continued down the stairs, and headed outside, the crowd of men and women parting for them like the Red Sea.

  The gamblers began paying off or collecting their debts.

  Chance prodded Albavera past the horses and troughs, stopping to pick up his hat. He ran a finger through the hole in the center of the crown, and pulled the battered hat on his head.

  “Walk to the sorrel,” Chance ordered.

  “Your horse?” Albavera asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Nice looking mount.”

  “So’s yours.”

  Albavera stopped by the sorrel gelding.

  “Stand there, hands up,” Chance ordered, and walked to the horse. He shoved the Smith & Wesson behind his back, kept the Springfield trained on Albavera, and gathered his mackinaw from the saddle. “Open the saddlebag,” Chance said, “pull out a pair of bracelets, put them on your wrists.”

  The black man did as he was told.

  “Step away from the sorrel.”

  Again, Albavera obeyed.

  Chance placed the Springfield at his feet, pulled on his jacket, and then drew a Winchester Centennial from its scabbard.

  “Nice rifle,” Albavera said.

  “Uh-huh. Now, mount up.”

  “What about my stallion?”

  “I’ll ride him. I figure that gray can outrun that sorrel of mine. In case you get the notion.”

  “I don’t know,” Albavera said. “This little gelding’s got a lot of heart, lot of stamina, I think. Might be a good horse race.”

  “Mount up.”

  Grunting, Albavera swung into the saddle.

  “All right.” Chance turned, saw the Andalusian, and remembered the saddle. Sighing, he barked an order at one of the loafers in front of the saloon to fix the saddle. While a cowhand did that, Chance grabbed the saddlebags from his sorrel and shoved the Springfield in the bag that had contained his handcuffs. When it was buckled tight he secured the bags behind the saddle on the gray stallion. Next, he withdrew a Winchester carbine from the scabbard, and tossed it to the cowboy who had saddled the horse. “Payment,” he said.

  “Thanks,” the cowhand said. “But them stirrups might be a little long for your legs.”

  “They’ll do.” He slid his Centennial into the scabbard, gathered the reins, mounted the horse, and drew the Schofield. “All right, Moses Albavera, let’s go to Galveston.”

  Albavera pointed toward the Butterfield trail. More than twenty riders were loping down the road, turning off, heading straight for the two-story saloon.

  “I’m not sure either of us will live to see Galveston, Ranger,” the black man said. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s Don Melitón Benton.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The bells of the mission Nuestra Señora de Limpia Concepción de Los Piros de San Pedro del Sur—Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception of the Piros of Saint Peter of the South—rang loudly that morning until the friar pulling the rope spotted the riders entering the village. As the ringing died the friar ran out in front of the whitewashed building, urging an elderly woman and her daughter inside, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind them.

  A dog barked once, before scurrying underneath an ox cart.

  The streets were empty.

  A shutter on a window facing the street quickly closed.

  Captain Hec Savage and Juan Lo Grande led the column of riders down the quiet streets, stopping at the cantina. Lo Grande nodded at one of the riders, a thin man wearing the bullet-riddled, bloodstained uniform he had torn off a corpse on the Río Grande. The bandido pounded the butt of his battered musket on the door until a gaunt man still in his nightshirt opened the door. Shoving the man out of the way, he beckoned at the mounted horsemen and barged through the doorway.

  “You must try the mole de guajalote,” Lo Grande said casually as he swung down from his white horse.

  “For breakfast?” Savage shook his head.

  “Amigo.” Lo Grande wrapped the reins around the hitching rail in front of the cantina. “We will be here much longer than for breakfast. ¿No es verdad?”

  “We’ll see.” Savage dismounted and found the makings for a smoke.

  To the captain’s surprise, more than half of Lo Grande’s men headed for the mission instead of the cantina. Most of the Rangers led their horses to the livery across the street. That didn’t surprise Savage. He should have done the same thing, but after he had lit a cigarette, he followed Lo Grande into the adobe building.

  Lo Grande took a seat at a table facing the doorway, his back to the wall. The Mexican outlaw gestured to the opposite chair, but Savage grabbed another, and sat directly beside Lo Grande. Both men drew their revolvers and laid them on the rough tabletop. The man in the nightshirt immediately brought them a bottle of tequila, and filled two tumblers.

  Lo Grande lifted his. “A su salud, mi capitán.”

  Their glasses clinked. Lo Grande downed his in an instant. Savage took a small sip, then set the glass beside his Merwin Hulbert. He told the man in the nightshirt, “Café solo negro, por favor. Y agua.”

  “Sí.” The man in the nightshirt hurried to the kitchen.

  “You speak our language muy bien,” Lo Grande said as he refilled his glass.

  “Had
to.” Savage exhaled, and took another long drag on the cigarette. “You damned greasers living in Texas won’t learn our language.”

  Lo Grande’s head shook. “I am no damned greaser, amigo. And I do not live in your humble state.”

  “Texas ain’t humble, Lo Grande. And you spend enough time north of the river. Hell, you could probably vote in the next election.”

  Leaning his head against the wall, the Mexican let out a boisterous laugh, slammed his glass, empty again, on the table. “Rinche, you amuse me.”

  “You smile too damned much.”

  Lo Grande shrugged. “‘One may smile and smile, and still be a villain.’”

  “That’s the damned truth.”

  Two women, their hair a mess, clothes hurriedly thrown on, came out of the kitchen, and began serving Lo Grande’s men who had not gone to Mass. Doc Shaw and two other Rangers hesitated at the doorway, but finally entered the cantina, taking a table near the window. They, too, put their pistols on the table. Savage looked through the window, scanning the low rooftops of the adobe buildings across the street, half-expecting to see a rifle barrel appear. He wouldn’t put an ambush past a man like Juan Lo Grande.

  The man in the nightshirt returned with Savage’s cup of coffee and a glass of water. He set both on the table, then turned, but Lo Grande stopped him, ordering huevos revueltos con jamón, té and one toronja. With a worried nod, the man returned to the kitchen, glancing at the women as they took orders from Lo Grande’s men.

  “We should get down to business,” Savage said, pitching his cigarette to the floor, sipping his coffee.

  “Después de desayuno, mi capitán,” Lo Grande said.

  Two of Lo Grande’s men began shouting at each other, rising from their seats. Savage shook his head. “Not after breakfast, Lo Grande. Now.” He lowered his left hand below the table, and, taking advantage of the noise the two bandidos made, carefully drew his other ivory-handled .44, leaving it cocked on his lap.

  Shaking his head, Lo Grande refilled his tumbler, but did not raise it to his lips. “¡Cállate!” he yelled at the two arguing bandits, and the men glanced at him, shut up, and sat down. He turned toward Savage, looked at down at the Ranger’s lap, and grinned.

  Man’s got good ears, Savage thought. Heard me cocking that .44 over all that ruction.

  “Very well,” Lo Grande said. “The Rurales of San Pedro are now my men. I control northern Chihuahua.”

  Savage took another sip of coffee. “What about the Rurales in Ojinaga?”

  He crossed himself. “They were killed last week, mi capitán. Without your help.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Es verdad. So, again, northern Chihuahua is my kingdom, if you will.”

  “Till Porfirio Díaz finds out about it.”

  Lo Grande shook his head. “He won’t.

  Savage made no reply and switched from coffee to water. He drained the glass.

  “Can you control Presidio?” Lo Grande asked.

  “Northern Chihuahua’s your kingdom. West Texas is mine. Has been for better than ten years.”

  “Indeed. From the Pecos River to say . . . the Davis Mountains?”

  “I’d put it farther west than that.”

  “But not El Paso, eh, amigo?”

  “I don’t get to El Paso much.”

  Lo Grande killed his tequila. “Murphyville and Marathon are the keys to our success.”

  Towns on the Southern Pacific Railroad. Savage understood that. For an answer, he nodded.

  “And what of your soldados? The bluecoats, as you call them.” Lo Grande grinned again. “Your presidios. Fort Davis, Fort Stockton, Fort Bliss.”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  “With sixteen men?”

  Suddenly, Savage’s shoulders sagged. He took another sip of coffee, and sadly shook his head. “When I first come out here, I had seventy-five men. Two lieutenants. Lost a lot of good men”—his cold eyes locked on Lo Grande—“to a lot of murdering vermin like you.”

  Lo Grande smiled again, lifted his glass in a mocking salute.

  “Austin got tight. Cut back. Hell, they even disbanded some Ranger companies. They think Texas is tame. It’s not. Won’t ever be.”

  “Your story is very interesting, amigo, but you digress. You have sixteen men, no?”

  “I got twenty. Left four of them behind. Got to keep the peace.”

  “Indeed. Then sixteen men you can trust?”

  “We’ll see. Haven’t told these boys everything. There’s a couple I’m not sure of. Yet.” He looked at Doc Shaw and the two Rangers sipping coffee.

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “I’ll do it. But there’s another thing we got to work out before I agree to anything with the likes of you. You want this little deal to work, I can’t have you or your men raiding north of the river, killing miners in Terlingua, making off with a woman.”

  Lo Grande laughed.”Amigo, she was a puta.”

  “She’s still a woman.”

  The outlaw leader shook his head. “You want her back?”

  “That’s why we crossed the border.”

  Lo Grande pushed his sombrero back, and scratched his head, then shrugged. “You are a man of principle, mi capitán. I thought you came to Mexico to help us eliminate some Rurales.” He slammed the bottle of tequila on the table, and called out, “Leoncio!”

  A black-bearded man wearing the dead lieutenant’s uniform rose from a table, crossed the cantina’s floor, and stood in front of Lo Grande as the bandido barked out something in Spanish too rapid for Savage to catch. The man’s eyebrows arched, and Lo Grande yelled something else.

  “Sí,” Leoncio mumbled, and hurried outside.

  “It is done.” Lo Grande smiled again.

  The man in the nightshirt returned with a platter, and served Lo Grande a plate of scrambled eggs, ham, and an old grapefruit, as well as a cup of tea. He also had a fresh cup of coffee for Savage. After depositing the breakfast on the table, he hurried back to the kitchen.

  “Before I partake of this magnifico breakfast, amigo, I must insist that we reach our truce, and proceed.” Lo Grande gathered knife and fork. “¿Estamos de acuerdo, no?”

  Savage rose, the Merwin Hulbert in his left hand, which he switched to his right. He left the other revolver beside the coffee cups. “Let me ask my men over yonder.” We’ll see if we’re in agreement or not.”

  He crossed the room and stood at the table where Doc Shaw sat with Rangers Hamp Magruder and Wes Smith. “Lo Grande’s man is fetching that whore,” Savage said.

  “That’s good,” Shaw said nervously.

  “We’ve formed a little alliance.”

  Magruder pushed back his porkpie hat. “Figured that, Capt’n. After what happened on the Río Grande.”

  “You didn’t tell us nothing about that, Captain Savage,” Wes Smith said.

  “I know it. Maybe I should have. But it’s spilt milk.”

  Magruder leaned forward. “You can’t trust a bandido like Lo Grande, Capt’n,” he whispered.

  “Reckon I know that, too.” Savage stepped back and looked through the window.

  Leoncio was dragging a woman, screaming, fighting, and crying, from the hotel, pulling her by her hair. The Terlingua whore. She fell, but Leoncio never broke stride, dragging her in the dirt. Savage glanced at the livery, saw Demitrio and the others watching, wondering, but staying put. Doc Shaw turned, rose, and cursed, his hand dropping for the long-barreled Colt on the table beside his beer.

  “Easy, Doc,” Savage warned. “Let him bring her in.”

  Hamp Magruder also muttered a curse—aimed at Savage—but the Ranger captain ignored it. By that time, Leoncio had entered the saloon, and let go of the woman’s brown hair. She fell to the floor sobbing. Slowly lifting her head, her right hand pressed tight against her head, she bit back the pain. Her eyes drilled through the Ranger badge on Savage’s chest. Lips trembling, she started to rise.

  “Sta
y put, ma’am,” Savage said. To his surprise, she obeyed.

  Savage glanced at the .44 in his hand. “Boys, we’ve been risking our necks for years now. Nothing to show for it. I kinda figure Texas owes us.”

  “Capt’n,” Magruder said, and pointed at the woman. “If this is part of your alliance with Lo Grande, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  “You helped kill those Rurales on the river,” Savage said.

  “That’s true, Capt’n, but shootin’ Mezkins is one thing. You’re talkin’ ’bout something else.”

  “We could make a fortune,” Savage said.

  “Or a trip to the gallows,” Wes Smith said.

  “That why you led us here, Capt’n?” Magruder said. “To forge your bond with that son of a bitch?” He tilted his jaw at Lo Grande. “In blood.”

  Savage tilted his head toward the woman. “Figured to get her back, too.”

  Slowly Magruder rose. “Capt’n . . .” he began, but Savage had heard enough.

  He lifted the Merwin Hulbert and shot the Ranger in the chest. Turning quickly, thumbing back the hammer, he tried to find Wes Smith behind the pungent white smoke, but another shot left his ears ringing before he could line up the young Ranger. Smith slammed over backward, spilling his chair, blood spurting from a purple hole in the center of his forehead as the light slowly left his eyes.

  Doc Shaw stood, holding a Colt .45 in his right hand.

  The woman on the floor shrieked.

  Shaw gave Savage a quick glance before hurrying outside, raising his hands, one holding a smoking revolver. In a calming suggestion he yelled to the Rangers at the livery, “It’s all right! Everything’s all right!”

  The woman kept screaming.

  Savage looked at the two dead Rangers on the floor, considered Lo Grande a moment, then knelt by the whore. “Listen to me,” he said.

  She went right on with those damned howls.

  Savage holstered the revolver. Spoke again. She didn’t shut up, so he slapped her. Hard. The woman became quiet, looking at him with vacant eyes.

  “That’s a hard thing to see, ma’am. I’m taking you back to Texas, ma’am. Back to Terlingua.” He helped her to her feet. “But you listen to me, ma’am. You ever speak a word of what you just saw, and I promise you you’ll wish you were back with them hombres.” He pointed at the smiling Lo Grande.