She stepped to the edge of the boardwalk, looking past Savage at the men in the saddles. She wet her lips. “Where is Lieutenant Wickes?”
No one answered.
Savage turned in the saddle, looked up and down the street. Marathon was coming to life. A Mexican peon led a burro loaded with firewood down the street, sombrero in his hand, walking nervously toward the gathering of men. Across the street. a merchant stood in front of the mercantile, holding a ring of keys in his trembling left hand. Another Mexican, a woman in a muslin dress, stood in the doorway of her jacal, kneading dough. In the tents beyond the hotel, railroad hands were brewing coffee and frying bacon. Slowly, Savage’s eyes turned back to Grace. Without looking away from her, he asked, “Doc, how far you make that train?”
“Couple miles, I reckon.”
Savage nodded. “You want to give up that whore, Grace?”
“She went on the westbound,” she said.
“Not yet, she ain’t.”
“It was a special run.”
He smiled. “Nice try, ma’am. I’m afraid I got to shut down your saloon, Grace.”
“For what?”
“Serving bad whiskey.”
“Same whiskey I’ve been serving here for better than three years.”
“Yeah.” He drew the .44 and shot the bartender in the left leg, just above his kneecap.
Grace staggered back, bringing both hands to her open mouth, as Horatius grabbed his leg, screaming, and toppled off the boardwalk and into the dust. His horse danced away, started to run, but Doc Shaw grabbed the reins and held the blue roan tight. The railroad workers bolted out of their tents, rounding the corner, a couple of them wielding sledgehammers and one thumbing back the hammer of an old cap-and-ball Navy Colt. Rangers Eliot Thompson and Bucky Bragg wheeled their horses, Thompson pulling out a Remington revolver while Bragg tapped his peso star and said, “Stand easy, boys. We’re the law.”
“Go back to your breakfast, gents,” Hec Savage said, still staring at Grace Profit.
On the ground, Horatius reached for the boardwalk, missed, fell back into the sand, dragged himself up, and put both hands on his bleeding leg. Tears streamed down his sand-covered face, his eyes tight with pain, but he managed to spit out a few curses at Savage before he let out a little whimper, and fell back on his side.
Lowering her hands, summoning up her resolve, Grace started for the beer-jerker, but Savage stopped her. “I’ll take care of him, Grace.” He nodded at Cutter and Newton. “Take him behind the depot.” Finally, Savage holstered the Merwin Hulbert. “Put his legs on the rail.”
Grace stared, incredulous. “You can’t be serious, Hec.”
“Oh, I am, Grace. Indeed I am.” He kicked his horse back a few steps, tugged on the reins, and led the way to the depot.
Horatius wailed in agony when the two Rangers grabbed him with rough hands, and dragged him through the dirt, off the road, across the empty lot toward the railroad tracks. Grace hurried off the boardwalk, screaming for them to stop, but they kept right on. She whirled, seeking help from the railroad men, but the last of them hung his head, and walked back to the tents. Across the street, Rodney Kipperman, who ran the mercantile, hurriedly opened the door, slammed it shut, and pulled down the shade. Even the Mexican woman had returned inside the jacal, and the old man with the load of wood stood, mouth open, crossing himself.
“Damn you, Savage,” Grace cried, but had to step out of the way of Doc Savage as he led the other Rangers after the captain. “You can’t do this. What kind of men are you?”
The last two Rangers pulled the mounts of Newton and Cutter behind them. One of them had taken the dead quail and was wrapping the string around his saddle horn.
She remembered Horatius’s shotgun. He had let her shoot it a couple of times, a double-barrel made in London, so light, she doubted it weighed more than five pounds. Likely loaded with only birdshot, it wouldn’t kill anyone unless she got really close, and really lucky, but it was all she could think of. She turned, took a step, stopped. Behind her Horatius yelled, cursed, and cried.
The William Moore & Grey 12-gauge lay in the street, the blue roan a few rods away. The Damascus barrels lay beside the boardwalk, the stock near the watering trough. She hadn’t even heard the Rangers bust it apart.
Upstairs, if those Rangers who had searched her room hadn’t found it, she had a .38-caliber Colt Lightning, which would kill a man. She bolted onto the boardwalk, grabbed the doorknob, when the westbound’s whistle let out a shrill scream. She stepped back, saw the thick black smoke from the locomotive, knowing she’d never reach that pistol in time. Instead, she turned, leaped off the boardwalk, ran across the lot in her bare feet, tails of her range coat whipping behind her, leaping over patches of prickly pear, stubbing her toe on a rock. She knew she was crying. She didn’t care.
“Savage! Savage! No!” she yelled. She stumbled near the depot’s platform, letting the sight sink in, still not certain she believed it, then charged down the slight embankment toward the tracks, only to be stopped by Doc Shaw’s hands. She fought him, but he gripped her around the waist, held her tight, and pulled her into the shade, up onto the platform.
Kneeling, Cutter and Newton held Horatius at his shoulders, pinning him to the dirt, both legs on the railroad tracks, his right one soaked with blood, his left kicking frantically. The bartender frothed like a rabid dog, his eyes wide. The two Rangers kept glancing down the tracks, inching away from the rails, making sure they wouldn’t get hit when the big Baldwin locomotive pulled up to the depot.
“Savage! Hec! Don’t!” She looked for the captain, found him on his gray horse, telling a couple of his men to ride out a ways toward the oncoming train.
“Let that engineer see your badges,” Savage ordered them. “Don’t show him any guns, just your badges. That way he’ll know we’re not holdup men, just lawmen doing our job.”
“Your job?” Grace stamped at Doc Shaw’s feet, but the Ranger merely chuckled. “You crazy son of a bitch,” she snapped.
Savage turned his horse, and nudged the gray to the edge of the depot’s platform. “Hell, Grace, I’m doing Horatius a favor. If my bullet hit bone, that leg of his’ll have to come off. Wheels of that train will do the job a lot faster, cleaner, than some old hack with a surgical saw.”
The screams of the locomotive drowned out Grace’s curse and Horatius’s screams.
She turned, saw the engine, its headlamp staring like Cyclops. Whitish gray smoke poured from the stack. She could hear the rattling, the hissing, could make out the number on the front of the train so clearly—421. The engineer leaned out the window, his face blackened with soot, then disappeared. Grace heard the brakes squeal, and saw the sparks fly.
“Captain!” It was Doc Shaw’s voice.
Grace closed her eyes, felt the bile rising up her throat.
“Get him out of there!”
She felt the warmth as the Baldwin engine slid past her in a cacophony of noise, heard the last belch of steam, felt her whole body go limp. Only Doc Shaw’s grip kept her from collapsing in a heap.
The engineer scrambled out of the cab. “What the hell was you doin’?”
“Getting information,” Savage said, swinging down from the saddle, oblivious to the surprised eyes staring at him from the windows of the passenger cars. The conductor ran alongside the rails, demanding to know what was going on. Savage ignored him, and swept the hat off his head, bowing slightly.
Grace opened her eyes to see Linda Kincaid step onto the platform, her lips trembling, her face ashen.
“Miss Kincaid,” Savage said.
The whore’s fingers clenched into fists.
Around the front of the locomotive came Cutter and Newton.
“Where’s the barkeep?” Bragg asked.
Cutter hooked his thumb. “Back yonder. Passed out. Messed his britches.” He winked at Grace. “But don’t worry, ma’am. He’s still got both his legs. I mean, limbs, ma’am. For the time being.”<
br />
“Fetch that roan of his,” Savage ordered. “No sidesaddle, Miss Kincaid, but it’ll get you down to Presidio.”
Grace found her voice. “Why are you taking her?”
“She’s a witness, Grace.” Savage donned his hat. “I’ll need her to testify when we catch old Juan Lo Grande. But till then, I figure it’s best to keep her in, what do you call it? Oh, yeah, protective custody. Bragg, fetch a few jugs of Grace’s brew for the journey south. Then burn down that saloon. I told you, Grace, I gotta shut you down.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chance and Albavera circled around Marathon, coming in from the east instead of the west, not taking any chances, not doing anything that would play into the hands of Don Melitón and his vaqueros. When they reached the eastern outskirts of town, Chance reined in the Andalusian, and told Albavera to stop.
Pressing the Winchester Centennial against the saddle, Chance stood in the stirrups and studied the street, the buildings, even the shrubs and cactus, before he sank back down, letting out a haggard breath.
“I guess we won’t be cutting the trail dust with some of that forty-rod Grace Profit serves, eh, Sergeant Chance?” Albavera asked.
They had a clear view. The wind carried wisps of smoke into the darkening skies. Where once Grace’s canvas tent stood, they saw only scorched earth, ashes, and smoldering ruin.
Raising the Winchester, Chance pointed the barrel down the street, ready. The stallion stamped its forefoot and shook its head, but Chance gave the reins a slight pull. He wasn’t ready to go yet. He kept searching the streets for people. Marathon rolled up its streets at night, but it wasn’t yet dark. The railroaders weren’t in their tents. Hell, the tents were gone. There was nobody to be found on the town’s main street.
The black man leaned forward, the chains of the iron bracelets jangling in the evening air. “Don Melitón’s handiwork, I warrant.”
“Maybe.” Chance thumbed back the hammer on the big .45-70. “I don’t see his men, though.” He pointed his chin at the corral on the southern side of the street. “No horses in the livery yonder. Nothing. Nobody.”
“You wouldn’t,” Albavera said. “Wouldn’t see any of that old reprobate’s killers, not if they’re worth a flip. Yonder’s your good residents of Marathon, though.” Albavera pointed, and Chance followed the long, thick finger, seeing the Catholic church on a little rise across the Southern Pacific rails on the northwestern edge of town. The big door to the church was open. So was the gate to the little cemetery behind the adobe building. A crowd, by Marathon’s standards, had gathered among the ocotillo crosses and warped cottonwood tombstones.
“Looks like a burying.” Albavera swept off his hat and bowed mockingly. “Should we pay our last respects?”
Not bothering with a reply, Chance watched the crowd at the graveyard for only a moment. People at a funeral posed no threat to him. Quickly, he turned his gaze back down the street, examining each building, every window, the alleys, everything, one more time.
Albavera asked, “You think that old don’s waiting to ambush us?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“Why not take these cuffs off me? Give me a gun? I can help. And I can shoot.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I thought we was friends.”
“I don’t think so.”
“After all we’ve been through?”
Chance didn’t answer. Thinking, he ran his tongue across his dry lips. He would have bet a month’s wages Don Melitón would have had at least two riders there, waiting to ambush him, or to at least find him and the man-killer, before riding out to lead the old man and the rest of his gunmen back into the city.
Albavera was talking again, but all Chance heard was, “You know I’m innocent.”
“I don’t care.”
Albavera chuckled. “Well, let’s ride on into town. Hell, those folks might as well stay put at that graveyard. Chances are, if Don Melitón’s around, they’ll be burying you and me before sundown.” He kicked the sorrel into a walk, sitting erect in the saddle. With a muffled curse, Chance spurred the Andalusian.
They rode toward the sinking sun, the clopping hooves sounding incredibly loud. The wind picked up, and Chance caught a movement toward the tracks. He looked up, saw the thin strand of a telegraph wire slapping against the pole next to the depot.
Albavera had noticed it, too. Little escaped that man’s eyes. “Guess you can’t wire your boss in Austin to let him know you’ve captured the notorious Moses Albavera, or give the reporters in Galveston a chance to meet us at the station . . . if any of them remember me, or the Marin brothers.”
Chance gripped the Centennial a little tighter, risking a look at Grace Profit’s saloon as they rode past.
Nothing but ashes, smoke still snaking its way from black and gray mounds, a few charred jugs, broken from the heat. He detected no sign of any attempt to put the fire out, but water was scarce, and the residents had likely let the flames consume the canvas structure—the place undoubtedly went up fast—and concentrated instead on wetting down the sides and roofs of the hotel and mercantile. He couldn’t fault them for that, and, neither, he figured, would Grace Profit. Both she and Chance had seen entire towns go up in flames.
“Wonder what caused the fire,” Albavera said.
Chance was bothered more by the cut telegraph wire.
“I sure hope Miz Grace wasn’t hurt,” the black gunman said.
“Me, too,” Chance whispered. He looked ahead at the Iron Mountain Inn, to an upstairs window. Grace’s room. No light. No movement. He felt worried, hoping, praying it wasn’t Grace they were burying on that hilltop cemetery.
They halted at the depot. A CLOSED sign hung on the door, but the schedule, written in chalk on a blackboard, stood between the door and the clerk’s window. Being closest to the depot, Albavera leaned forward and read it. He turned to Chance with a grin. “Eastbound’s due noon on Sunday. Gives us a while to rest. Too bad Miz Grace’s saloon burned down.”
“You know Grace, eh?” Chance said.
Albavera grinned. “Yeah, but I don’t think I know her as well as you do, Ranger.” He chuckled.
Chance frowned. He tilted his head down the street, and Albavera let the sorrel walk toward the Iron Mountain Inn. Both men seemed startled when the door swung open. Albavera pulled back on the reins, leaning to his right, ready to leap from the saddle; Chance lifted the Centennial, dropping the reins over the stallion’s neck. A Mexican woman backed out the door, setting a keg of water and a mop on the boardwalk. Cleaning lady. Chance and Albavera relaxed, whistling simultaneously. Chance lowered the heavy rifle, and the Andalusian snorted.
Turning quickly, the woman, a petite lady with silver-streaked black hair, grabbed a crucifix that dangled between her breasts. As Chance reached for his hat brim, she whispered, “Los rinches. Los rinches.”
And took off running.
“You have a way with the ladies, my friend,” Albavera said.
They watched her run, lifting the hem of her skirt, across the dusty street, into a tiny jacal. She shouted something, and a burly Mexican exited, staring at Chance, then at Albavera. He walked around the side of the hut, and came back with a pitchfork, taking long strides toward the two riders.
Chance didn’t like it, but he lowered the hammer on the Winchester, and slid from the saddle, keeping the barrel of the heavy rifle pointed at the ground. He let the reins drop to the ground, and pushed up his hat brim, smiling, starting out with a friendly, “Buenas tardes, ami—”
“Damn!” Chance leaped away to avoid the prongs of the pitchfork the black-haired, barrel-chested Mexican thrust at him. He let go of the Winchester, lost his balance, and fell on his buttocks. Shaking his head, he looked up. First he saw Albavera in the saddle, eyes bright, howling, and heard his mocking laughter. A second later, he saw the Mexican.
And the pitchfork.
“Now wait . . .” Chance rolled to his right, felt the tool swish
past his ear. He shot to his feet, came up with his hands extended, palms outward, placating. “Listen, mister, I—”
He ducked again. Instinctively, his hand reached for the butt of the Schofield, but he didn’t want to kill the peon. He tapped the peso badge pinned on his vest.
The Mexican looked massive. Hands like hams gripped the pitchfork’s handle. His muscles strained against the homespun cloth of his shirtsleeves. The front of the shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a strong, hairy chest. He wore sandals and ragged pants. His eyes were dark, malevolent. Dirt was caked on his face, in his hair. His brow knotted. “El rinche,” he said.
“That’s right. I’m a Ranger. Now . . . Crap!”
A prong caught the left sleeve of Chance’s mackinaw. He barely pulled free.
Albavera kept laughing.
The pitchfork came slashing again. Chance rolled underneath the Andalusian, came up on the other side. The horse bolted a few rods away. He backed against the sorrel, quickly ducked, fearing Albavera might join the fight, but the prisoner kept cackling.
Chance felt something running down his left arm, realizing the pitchfork had caught more than just his jacket sleeve. He backed away, found the Schofield’s butt, and kept his hand there.
“Hombre,” Chance said, shaking his head. “Por favor.”
“Hijo de la puta.” The Mexican spat, and lunged the pitchfork at Chance’s gut. “Pendejo.”
Chance leaped back, jerking the big .45 free of the holster. He gave his prisoner a moment’s consideration.
“He doesn’t seem to like you much, Ranger Chance,” Albavera said. He still sat on the sorrel, eyes bemused. He seemed to have completely forgotten about Don Melitón. For that matter, so had Chance.
“How about some help?” Chance asked. “I don’t want to have to kill this guy.”
“I don’t care,” Albavera said.
“I thought we were friends. All we’ve been through.”
West Texas Kill Page 10