He left the woman standing, as he walked back to the table. The whore stood there, weaving, her eyes on the Rangers on the floor, but not really seeing the dead men, not really seeing anything.
“I guess that settles things,” Savage said.
“Muy bien, mi capitán.” Lo Grande spooned some grapefruit into his mouth.
“I’ll take the woman and those bodies back.” Savage picked up the revolver he had left on the table.
“You will be a hero in the eyes of all Tejanos.” He spooned another slice of grapefruit.
“Maybe. But I don’t reckon it would look right if I brung back just two dead Rangers and a whore.” Turning, he thumbed back the hammer of the Merwin Hulbert, and shot off Leoncio’s right ear. The black-bearded man screamed, dropping to his knees, putting his right hand over the bleeding, mangled cartilage. Before Lo Grande could swallow the grapefruit, Savage had turned, cocked the .44, and leveled the long barrel an inch from Lo Grande’s head.
The woman was yelling again.
“¡No!” Lo Grande yelled, making frantic gestures at his men. “¡Pare! ¡Pare! ¡No es nada! ¡Espere! ¡No importa!” The men froze, guns halfway out of their waistbands, sashes, or holsters. The woman screamed. Leoncio toppled onto his side, writhing in pain, kicking, spreading blood across the sod floor.
The woman fell silent. Rangers poured into the doorway.
“It’s all right,” Savage said. “Isn’t it, Lo Grande?”
“Es muy bien,” Lo Grande said. For a Mexican, Savage thought, Juan Lo Grande looked mighty pale.
“Doc,” Savage called out. “Demitrio. Load poor Magruder and Smith on their saddles. We’ll take them home for burying. Bucky, fetch the woman. That’s the whore from Terlingua. Taw, you take that one-earred greaser. He’s our prisoner. That suit you, Lo Grande?”
“Sí ”, the bandit said.
“Then we’ll be taking our leave. Don’t try anything.”
“Buen Viaje.” Lo Grande lifted his tumbler of tequila, but the glass shook in his hands. “Hasta la vista, los rinches.”
“Adiós.” Slowly, never lowering the Merwin Hulbert, Hec Savage backed to the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
For the past year, Hec Savage had called the presidio on the bluff overlooking the Rio Grande and the Chihuahua Trail home, but when the massive L-shaped adobe fort came into view, it didn’t look inviting. It never did. It merely made Savage feel older than his forty-seven years.
He led his men, the Terlingua prostitute, and his prisoner off the dusty road and through the open gate into the adobe citadel. Squawking chickens and barking dogs ran across the compound as Savage wearily swung down from the saddle, handing the reins to a young Mexican boy.
A bald man in plaid trousers and a red bib-front shirt exited from a side building. He wiped the dirt off his spectacles with a yellow bandana before he made his way to Savage, nodding greetings as other Rangers passed. Suddenly he stopped, staring as Demitrio led a pair of bay geldings behind him, two bodies wrapped in canvas draped over the saddles.
“Who are they?” the man asked.
“Smith and Magruder, Lieutenant,” Demitrio said without stopping.
“Damn.” Shaking his head, Ranger Lieutenant Ray Wickes resumed his journey across the compound, glancing at the Terlingua whore and the Mexican outlaw, but focusing on Hec Savage.
They shook hands, though neither was glad to see the other. Wickes pointed his folded eyeglasses at the woman and prisoner. “You got the woman.”
Savage nodded. He wasn’t one to waste words answering an obvious question.
“What about the payroll?”
“No luck. But I reckon them miners would rather have their whore returned than any money.”
“Who’s the prisoner?”
“Calls himself Leoncio.” Savage walked to the well, where a Mexican woman hurriedly hoisted a bucket. “One of Lo Grande’s men.”
“He need a doctor?”
“He’s not getting one.”
Wickes put on his eyeglasses. He had to walk fast to keep pace with Savage. “Smith and Magruder?” he asked.
“They bought it. But we put a hurt on Lo Grande.”
They had reached the well. The woman offered Savage a ladle, but he shook his head, tossed off his hat, and dipped his hands into the cold water, splashing it across his face, running his fingers through his knotted hair. After he patted himself dry, he pointed at the woman who stood beside the corrals, not knowing what to do, or where to go.
“Eulalia,” Savage told the Mexican woman, “the gal’s name is Linda Kincaid.” That much Savage had learned on the ride from San Pedro. “I’d be obliged if you’d see to her, give her some grub, maybe a dress or something. Fix her a bath. A hot bath. With some of that yucca soap you make that smells so nice. She’s had a rough time.”
“Sí,” the woman said, and took the bucket and ladle toward the Terlingua whore.
“You haven’t polished off that bottle of good Manhattan rye, have you, Ray?” Savage asked. He picked up his hat, slapping it against his pants to rid it of the dust.
The lieutenant forced a smile. “Not yet.”
El Fortín, or Fort Leaton, lay about five miles east of the town of Presidio. An old scalp hunter and trader named Ben Leaton had built it in 1850 on the ruins of El Fortín de San José at La Junta, which the Spanish had founded in the early 1770s. Ben Leaton had built well. The long side stretched about 200 feet parallel to the Río Grande, the bottom of the “L” reaching about 140 feet against which the stockade for livestock had been constructed. The adobe walls, with fading whitewash, were at least eighteen inches thick, sometimes as thick as three-and-a-half feet. A parapet stretched atop the high walls, and two Rangers marched across, standing watch.
Most people considered Fort Leaton impregnable.
Old Ben Leaton didn’t live there long. He died in 1851, and his widow was forced to sell it to John Burgess, who had held the mortgage. Burgess lived there until Bill Leaton, the old scalp hunter’s son, killed him in 1875. The Burgess family finally abandoned the place in 1884, and Hec Savage had taken it over.
His office, a spartan affair with two desks, chairs, a case of rifles, and a few books, was near the main entrance to the fort. A map of Texas hung on the wall beside a wind-battered Lone Star flag. Ray Wickes reached between the stocks of a Winchester and a Sharps rifle, and retrieved the half-full bottle of Manhattan rye. While he filled two tumblers, Savage sat at his desk and shuffled through some papers.
Wickes handed Savage a glass, then sipped the whiskey and asked, “Exactly . . . well . . . where did you meet Lo Grande? The colonel . . . he really wants to know.” Wickes gestured at the telegrams on the desk.
Savage finished about half the rye. He set the tumbler on the desk, scanned a line on one of the pieces of yellow paper, and tossed it into the wastebasket in the corner.
“My report’ll say Cibolo Creek.”
“Colonel Thomas will never believe that.”
“I don’t give a damn.” Another telegram went into the trash.
Wickes pointed his tumbler at the papers. “Most of those are from Colonel Thomas. Wanting to know where you were. Demanding that you not cross into Mexico. Warning you that an engagement with the Rurales based in Ojinaga would lead to an international incident, something neither Austin nor Washington City would appreciate.”
“Uh-huh.” Savage gathered all the papers, even two rolled-up editions of the Presidio County News, the newspaper published in Fort Davis, and tossed them into the trash. “First of all, there are no Rurales in Ojinaga or San Pedro. Lo Grande’s men massacred them.”
“What?” Wickes spilled rye over his shirt.
Savage figured that would get the lieutenant’s attention. Ojinaga lay just across the river from Presidio.
“Who’d you learn . . . ?” Wickes shook his head, the gravity of the situation slowly seeping through that bald head of his.
“Heard it from that prisoner. We�
�ll keep the bastard here for a while. I’m not about to turn him over to the county sheriff or them miners in Terlingua. Not yet.”
Wickes killed his rye, suppressed a cough, and said, “Maybe you should inform the commanding officer at Fort Davis. About Lo Grande and Ojinaga, I mean.”
“Not the Army’s concern. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
Wickes started to protest, but a knock on the door cut him off. Doc Shaw stuck his head through the doorway. “Begging the captain’s pardon—hello, Mr. Wickes—but it’s about that whore.”
“Come on in, Doc. Pour yourself a whiskey.”
Doc Shaw accepted the invite. As soon as he had killed a shot, he wiped his mouth, and said, “It’s about Miss Kincaid, Captain.”
“What about her?”
“Well, she don’t want to go back to Terlingua.”
Savage frowned.
“I don’t blame her,” Ray Wickes said.
Savage eyed his lieutenant with something between contempt and hatred.
“Where exactly does she want to go?”
“Houston.”
“Why in hell would anyone want to go to that cesspool?” Savage finished his rye, and motioned to Doc Shaw, who held the bottle, for a refill. As the amber liquid poured into the tumbler, Doc Shaw explained.
“Well, Captain, she’s got kin in Houston. She had a rough time with Lo Grande’s men. You know that. Terlingua’s just bad memories for her. She wants to start fresh. See if her folks will take her in. They live in Houston.”
“This whore? She tell you that?”
“She told Eulalia. Eulalia told Demitrio. Demitrio told me.”
Savage took a swallow of rye, then ran his rough fingers on the rim of the glass, considering.
“We could take her to Marathon,” Wickes said. “Put her on an eastbound.”
The problem, Savage knew, was that there was a telegraph office in Marathon. Doc Shaw had to know that, as well. Savage certainly wasn’t sure if the whore would keep quiet. That’s why he wanted her in Terlingua, where the mail coach ran only once a week. It stopped at Fort Leaton, about sixty miles west, before heading north to Fort Davis and the San Antonio-El Paso road. Savage could inspect any outgoing mail, any letter Miss Linda Kincaid happened to write, any letter that looked threatening. Maybe he should have killed her, but, no Texas Ranger—no man—ever manhandled a petticoat. The sanctity of a woman, even a whore, even one from Terlingua, was something a man like Savage respected.
Yet if the woman reached Houston . . .
. . . She might talk. There might be a murder warrant issued for Hector Savage, and killing two holier-than-thou Rangers did not go over well in Austin. Well, Savage thought, he had only killed one. Doc Shaw had gunned down poor Wes Smith. Still, Colonel Thomas would hang Savage.
On the other hand . . .
“What did you say?” Savage killed his whiskey, and looked up at Wickes.
In a confused voice, Wickes answered, “I said we could take Miss Kincaid to Marathon. Let her catch the eastbound S.P. for Houston.”
Savage dipped into his outer coat pocket, rubbed the crucifix he had stolen off the Rurale lieutenant, found the makings, and began rolling a cigarette. “Wasn’t Private Smith from Houston?” he asked.
“I’d have to check our records,” Wickes said.
“Do it.”
Wickes sat at the other desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a ledger, and began thumbing through the pages. “Yes. Smith enlisted in Houston in May of ’83.”
“Where was Magruder from?”
Wickes turned back two pages. “Alabama. Came to Texas in ’67.”
“No kin?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, those two Rangers died in the line of duty. Died heroically.” Savage struck a match against his thumb, fired up the cigarette. “They deserve a fitting sendoff. Lieutenant, I want you, Sergeant Chance, and Rangers Turpen and Babbitt to escort the bodies of Rangers Magruder and Smith to Marathon. The whore will go with y’all.” He put the smoke on the ashtray, found paper and pencil, began writing out the orders. “You will proceed by train to Houston, deliver Miss Kincaid to her relatives, and see that Ranger Smith is given a proper funeral. Make sure the newspapers write about him and his funeral. I want his funeral to be the biggest thing to happen in Houston since . . . since I killed Duke Duncan there back in 1869.
“After that”—Savage paused long enough to take another drag on the smoke, and picked up the paper—“you will escort the body of Private Hamp Magruder to Austin, where he is to be buried in the state cemetery with full honors. If Colonel Thomas or that stupid governor make a fuss, tell them to go to hell. Magruder was an excellent man, spent many a year fighting for justice, and made the ultimate sacrifice. I think it is fitting and proper that he lie for eternity alongside Texans such as Ben McCullough and Albert Sidney Johnston.”
He signed the order, folded it, and handed it to a reluctant Wickes.
“You think this is wise, Captain? I mean . . . with Lo Grande controlling Ojinaga?”
“I’ll handle Lo Grande, Lieutenant. You handle the remains of your brave, late comrades. And that whore.”
“But that’ll leave you with just a dozen men.”
“Fourteen.” He took another pull on the cigarette. “Turpen and Babbitt are up on the parapet, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You will inform them of their orders. You will proceed with all due haste to the Southern Pacific depot at Marathon—” He frowned, and crushed out the cigarette. “Where is Sergeant Chance?”
“Dave was up in Murphyville, Captain,” Wickes said.”A Mex carpenter informed him that Moses Albavera was in Fort Davis. He went after—”
“Who the hell is Moses Albavera?”
“He’s in the book, Captain.”
Sighing, Savage reached across the ashtray to the books, pulling out a worn copy of the 1882 List of Fugitives from Justice. It was outdated, but that was Austin for you.
“What county?” Savage asked.
“Galveston.”
“Galveston. Jesus Christ!”
Savage found the page, scanned the list of names, and found the entry.
Albavera, Moses . . . First-degree murder (two counts); indicted July ’77; Moorish, i.e., Negroid, about 6 feet 3 inches in height; 200 pounds; left-handed; fancy dresser; excellent marksman; horseman. Killed Joseph and Chet Marin, brothers, at the Gulf Saloon & Gambling Parlor. Petty larceny (indicted July ’77). Failed to pay hotel for five nights lodging. Horse theft (indicted July ’77). Stole bay gelding & saddle, owned by Mr. Thad Taylor, Galveston. Horse recovered August ’77 in Victoria. Saddle never located.
Slamming the book shut, Savage shook his head. “Why the hell would Sergeant Chance go after some colored boy who’s wanted for killing two vermin in Galveston, hell, eight years ago, when there’s plenty of outlaws west of the Pecos, and Juan Lo Grande’s been raising hell?”
“He’s wanted, Captain.”
Six Rangers under Savage’s command were too damned honest. Two of those were dead. Savage had concocted a plan to get rid of the other four, but Dave Chance had to light out after some fool Negro man-killer.
“He might be posted for another killing, Captain,” Ray Wickes was saying. “I heard this Albavera fellow shot Prince Benton dead a few days ago up in Shafter.”
Savage studied Wickes for a full minute, letting the words soak in, then burst out laughing. As he filled his tumbler with more rye, he said, “Well, hell, that’ll do, I reckon. If that darky doesn’t kill Chance, Don Melitón surely will.”
CHAPTER SIX
Moses Albavera suggested, “You might want to give me a gun.”
Said Dave Chance, “I don’t think so.”
“Not even to protect myself from two dozen armed men?”
“That’s my job.”
Albavera swore, then spit.
The good sign was that Don Melitón Benton raised his right hand as he neared Chance and his pri
soner, and the twenty-five vaqueros riding behind him reined in their lathered mounts. The bad sign was that the old man held a side hammer Allen & Wheelock pistol. On the other hand, that weapon was a single-shot, and Chance had always figured it would take something more powerful than a .22 to kill him. Of course, each of Don Melitón’s vaqueros wore a brace of Navy Colts in their sashes, apparently all converted to centerfire, and carried Spencer carbines in their saddle scabbards. More than enough to finish off Chance and Albavera.
Chance studied the Schofield revolver as if it were a toy gun, and holstered it, putting his left hand on the saddle’s cantle and hooking his left leg over the horn. He waited for the don to approach.
Nobody truly knew where Don Melitón Benton hailed from. Despite his dress—open-sided, concho-studded britches favored by Spanish noblemen, calzoneras they were called, and a suede jacket trimmed in red velvet with elaborate embroidery—he wasn’t Mexican. An elegant mustache and neatly trimmed goatee, pure white, accented the bronzed face underneath a flat-crowned black hat secured underneath his chin by a horsehair braided stampede string.
Throughout West Texas and northern Chihuahua, stories were told that as a much younger man, he had fled Missouri—Chance always liked to believe the one that had Don Melitón, or Milton, as he had been called in earlier days, killing a man in a duel over a lady from Independence—into Mexico, where he had worked as a muleskinner for a freighting outfit that ran from Meoqui to Ojinaga. By 1850, Milton Benton had married the daughter of a flour mill magnate in Meoqui, and taken over the freighting outfit. By 1855, he had expanded his runs to the Chihuahua and Santa Fe trails. Five years later, Benton left Meoqui with his wife, Francisca, and carved out a rancho in Texas’s Chinati Mountains, some twenty-five miles north of the Río Grande. He bought land. Many stories said he learned the location of abundant springs from the Apaches.
His rancho along Cibolo Creek was more fortress than home, a hundred-square-foot adobe citadel with circular defense towers at the northern and southern corners in which visitors would always find armed guards. Other ranches he established in the Big Bend country were equally well protected.
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