West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  Chance dodged the pitchfork again. “You’re making a big mistake, amigo. I’m”—he ducked the prongs again— “a lawman.” He sidestepped another thrust. “I’m a Texas Ranger, señor.”

  “He knows that,” Albavera said.

  “Let’s talk”—he dodged again—“this over.”

  “Maybe he don’t speak English,” Albavera said.

  “Then he’s out of luck.” Chance had grown weary of that damned pitchfork, of everything. Those prongs were getting closer. His left arm had started throbbing. He brought the Schofield up, and eared back the hammer.

  The Mexican woman screamed from the jacal, but the man didn’t seem to notice the weapon in Chance’s hand. He drew the pitchfork back, prepared to send it toward Chance’s torso again.

  “¡Miguel!” a woman’s voice called from across the street. “¡Para ya!”

  Holding the pitchfork raised, the big Mexican slowly turned his head, and stared at Grace Profit standing in the middle of the street. Chance kept the Schofield aimed at the man’s paunch, but he slowly relaxed, trying to steady his breathing, his heartbeat.

  “It’s all right, Miguel.” Grace walked slowly, smiling. Behind her came others, the crowd from the funeral, dressed in black, or at least wearing black sleeve garters or scarves. Grace wore a double-breasted twill jacket trimmed in navy blue over a gray blouse and a black box-plaited skirt. A mourning bonnet, trimmed with crepe loops and black ribbon strings, set atop her blond hair. Even from that distance, Chance saw how red her eyes were, knew she’d been crying. He couldn’t blame her for that. Hell, her saloon was nothing but ashes.

  She spoke quietly in Spanish, and the Mexican lowered the pitchfork. Giving Chance a final, cold stare, he walked back to the jacal, his wife meeting him at the door. He leaned the tool against the adobe wall, and he and his wife went inside.

  “You all right, Dave?” Grace said.

  He started to holster the Schofield, but turned, ducked, and brought the .45 up quickly. The gunshot echoed, and a mound of dirt leaped up toward Albavera’s hands, inches above the Winchester Centennial laying in the street. Chance hadn’t even noticed the man dismount the sorrel.

  “Leave the rifle put.” Chance cocked the revolver.

  Albavera straightened, letting his manacled hands drop by his waist. “Just trying to help, Ranger.”

  “You can help me by keeping your hands off that rifle.”

  “All right.”

  “You want to help, take the horses to the corral. Water and grain them.”

  Albavera nodded, grabbed the reins to the sorrel, and led it across the street, tipping his hat as he passed Grace. He gathered the reins to the Andalusian, and walked to what passed for a livery stable in Marathon.

  Chance lowered the hammer, holstered the .45, and hurried to pick up the Winchester. Turning back toward Albavera he called out, “And Moses, don’t try to ride off.”

  Albavera let out another laugh, and led the horses into the corral.

  “Dave?” Grace’s voice was calm, soothing.

  Chance moved the Winchester to his left hand, and lowered it. He pressed his right against his aching, bleeding left arm, and, slowly looked at the woman in black. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “I’ll tell you, Dave,” she said, “over a drink. God knows, I need one tonight.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  She never drank the whiskey she served in her saloons. Grace Profit wasn’t that daring, or stupid. From the top drawer of her bureau, she pulled a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, and filled three glasses, handing one to Dave Chance, another to his prisoner, and picking up the fullest for herself. She sat on the couch, and Chance sat in a rocking chair. Moses Albavera, his hands still manacled, leaned against the wall, taking occasional glances out the window.

  “How close are you to your captain?” she asked.

  “You mean Captain Savage?” Chance sipped the whiskey. “He saved my life four years ago.”

  She ran a finger across the rim of the glass, not certain if she should continue.

  “What happened to your saloon, ma’am?” It was the black man who asked the question. She looked across the room, and studied him for a moment, her eyes falling from his rugged face to the iron bracelets. Ray Wickes had said Chance was chasing a black man who had killed Prince Benton. That would explain a lot.

  “Captain Hector Savage burned it down.” She lifted the glass, took a swallow, and stared at Chance. “Had it burned, anyway.”

  The Ranger set his glass by his boots, crossed his legs, and ran his right hand over the growth of beard stubble on his face. Trying to form a decent question, she figured, but all he said was, “Why?”

  She let out a little snort, and finished the Jameson. “Spite. Meanness. Oh, he said it was for serving bad whiskey, but it wasn’t so bad he stopped his men stealing a few jugs before they doused the tent walls and bar with it and set my place of business ablaze. It’s the same damned brew he’s been drinking since I set up here more than three years ago. He shot my bartender, too.”

  “Horatius?” Chance asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he—?”

  “Horatius didn’t have a gun, Dave. Savage shot him because he’s a son of a bitch.” She felt the blood rushing, and decided she had better refill her glass. She went to the bureau, poured herself four fingers, and walked across the room, topping off the glasses held by Chance and Albavera.

  “Is he dead?” Chance asked.

  Albavera thanked her, and looked out the window.

  Corking the bottle, Grace said, “If you’re looking for Don Melitón’s men, you don’t have to worry. Savage shot down two of the old man’s vaqueros before riding out of town. He rode out with a woman, Dave. No, he didn’t kill Horatius, but only by God’s grace. Shot him in the thigh, just above his knee, but the bullet didn’t hit bone. We were burying the don’s men when you two rode into town.” She was talking too fast, felt her hands shaking and took a drink. “Horatius is down the hall. You don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe him.”

  The bartender lay atop the sheets and quilt, sweating like a cowhand in August, grimacing while Grace changed the blood-soaked bandage that covered a grisly wound in his thigh that had been cauterized by packing the bullet hole with gunpowder and touching it off with a match. Chance wondered if Grace Profit had served as doctor, the nearest sawbones being the post surgeon at Fort Davis. Whoever it was had done a remarkable job. If infection didn’t set in, Horatius would likely live. Albavera lifted the bartender’s head as gently as possible, considering the iron cuffs on his wrists, and let him finish off the whiskey in his glass. The barman coughed, gave a little nod, and Albavera lowered his head back onto a pillow.

  “After he shot you,” Chance asked, “he burned the saloon?”

  “Yeah.” Horatius grimaced. “Well, first he had his men drag me to the railroad tracks. They put my legs over the rails. Held me down. Westbound was coming. They wanted me to tell them where we’d hid that woman from Terlingua. Criminy, I didn’t know.”

  Albavera wiped the barkeep’s sweaty forehead with a towel.

  “Like I told you, I’d been out hunting, saw the dust they was raising. Coming from the south, I figured it had to be Rangers. I hit the saddle, galloped back to town, ran upstairs to warn Grace and Miss Kincaid, then I come down and, well, there was the captain and, I don’t know, ten men.”

  “And Don Melitón’s men?” Chance asked.

  “I don’t know. I’d passed out by then.”

  Grace tied off the bandage, looked up at Chance. “Savage had set fire to the saloon. Those two vaqueros rode up, saw Horatius lying on the street, heard me screaming, cussing. I guess they thought I needed help—hell, I did—and they loped down the street. One of them yelled a warning, told Savage to stop. The other drew a rifle. They were shot dead out of the saddles.”

  “Likely they didn’t see the badges, thought they were outlaws,” Horatius said.

&nb
sp; “They are outlaws,” Grace said icily. “Savage’s men are killers, vermin.” She stopped. “Well, not you, Dave. But the men he had with him today. And even if the vaqueros saw those badges . . .” She shook her head, started to rein in her tongue, but couldn’t. “Look at that badge on your lapel, Dave. It’s cut out of a peso. You can’t blame any Mexican in South Texas or West Texas for hating you Rangers. Los rinches is not a term of endearment, of respect. They fear you. And with good reason. You’ve never shown them any respect, the Mexicans, I mean. Hec Savage has been riding roughshod over those people since he came here a decade ago.”

  “Grace,” Chance began, “that’s not—” He stopped. It was true. “You sure those two vaqueros were Don Melitón’s?”

  “Rail M brand. The Rangers rode off with their horses.”

  “Mine, too,” Horatius said. “They put that Terlingua woman on him.”

  “Maybe you could arrest Captain Hec Savage for horse theft,” Moses Albavera said, chuckling.

  “Shut up,” Chance said.

  “You rest, Horatius.” Grace rose from the bed. “If you need anything, just shout. I’ll be right down the hall.” She nodded toward the door.

  They were creatures of habit. Grace was back on the couch, Chance in the rocking chair, and Moses Albavera pressed his back against the wall, looking out the window. Their glasses contained the last of the Irish whiskey.

  “The captain had to have a reason,” Chance began.

  “Don’t make excuses for him, Dave,” Grace said. “He’s not the same person he was when he first came out here. Not that he ever was a gentleman, from what I hear.”

  “This wasn’t a gentle place, Grace.” He swallowed some whiskey. “Still isn’t.”

  “He’s changed. And you know it.”

  Chance couldn’t argue that point. Besides, a good chunk of those Rangers the captain had recruited over the past few years likely were better suited in prison stripes in Huntsville, not wearing a peso star like the one he was fingering on his vest. At least a couple of them—Bragg, Cutter—were wanted, but Captain Savage had said he didn’t care what a man had done in the past, providing he wasn’t wanted by the law in Texas. When Grace had called Savage’s men outlaws, she wasn’t stretching the truth.

  Savage had also been hitting the bottle fairly hard, always on the prod. Yet Chance had shrugged it off as pressure. It wasn’t easy commanding a group of Rangers along the Mexican border, and that bandit Juan Lo Grande didn’t make things any easier. So when Savage had gotten word of Lo Grande’s raid on Terlingua, he had ridden off after him, but hadn’t taken Chance.

  “I need you here,” the captain had said.

  “Yeah, but . . .” There weren’t many men around who could argue with Captain Hector Savage.

  “Need a man here I can trust, a man I know can get the job done . . . if something were to happen to me.”

  “Nothing can happen to you, Captain,” Chance had said.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you either, Dave. Remember Fort Stockton.”

  It wasn’t like he’d ever forget what had happened at the Bad Water Saloon in that parasite town that sprang up because of the military post. And it wasn’t like Hec Savage would ever let Chance forget. If he could single out one of Savage’s annoying faults, it was his habit to draw Fort Stockton like a six-shooter.

  “Anyway,” Savage had said, as if he realized he’d struck a little too close to the quick with his sergeant, “I’d rather have you running this deal than Ray Wickes.”

  Wickes.

  Grace was speaking of him, asking Chance what he thought of the lieutenant.

  Chance shrugged. “He’s a good man.” Better suited behind a desk in Austin than in the saddle in Presidio County.

  “Do you trust him?”

  Chance finished the whiskey. “With my watch, sure. With my life . . . ?” He shrugged.

  “What about Wes Smith?”

  He nodded. “He can handle a gun for a kid. Sure, I trust Wes.”

  “He’s dead. And”—she had to reach for the name, but she caught it—“Magruder.”

  The words slammed Chance like a mule’s hoof. He couldn’t believe what Grace was saying.

  “This is what Linda Kincaid, the woman from Terlingua, the one Lo Grande’s vermin had kidnapped, told me. She said Captain Savage killed them in a cantina in San Pedro, where he was meeting Juan Lo Grande.”

  “Killed who?” Chance asked.

  “Smith and Magruder.” She watched Chance’s brow knot, his face pale. “He killed one of them, I mean. Someone else, another Ranger, killed the other. That’s why Lieutenant Wickes came here. He put two coffins on the eastbound with two other Rangers. Escorts.”

  “Was Doc Shaw one of them?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Figures.” Chance’s thoughts whirled. Shaw had probably killed the second Ranger, if he could believe what Grace was telling him. Savage was capable of a lot of things, but murdering two of his own men? The woman, Linda Kincaid, must have been mistaken. She had been brutalized by Lo Grande’s bandits. Sure, that was it. She was just confused.

  But why had Savage shot that bartender? Why had he taken Linda Kincaid back to Fort Leaton? Why had he really burned down Grace’s saloon? Why would he have sent two Rangers back east as a sort of honor guard, with Lo Grande still playing hell on the border, short-handed as Company E was?

  Chance wished Grace had another bottle of Jameson. Hell, even some of that Taos Lightning she served at the saloon would have helped his nerves.

  “I can’t remember their names.”

  “Turpen and Babbitt,” Chance said.

  “Maybe.” She finished her whiskey. “I can’t say for sure.”

  She didn’t have to. He knew. Turpen, Babbitt, Wickes, and Chance had been left behind when the captain went off after Lo Grande and the Terlingua raiders. He would have trusted Turp and Babbitt with his watch or his life. They were good men. Damned good. So was Magruder.

  “What was the woman doing here?” Albavera asked.

  Grace and Chance gave him a surprised look. Grace cleared her throat, and answered. “The captain had sent her to catch the train back to Houston. That’s where her folks live.”

  “But she witnessed the murder of those two Rangers?”

  “Yes. That’s what she told me.”

  “Then why didn’t Captain Savage just kill her, too?”

  “I guess he has principles.”

  Chance shot out, “But he took her back with him.”

  She nodded. “Said it was for her own protection.”

  “Changed his mind.” Albavera finished his whiskey. “Got smarter. Smart, too, cutting the telegraph wire. He kinda cut you off, eh, Sergeant Chance?”

  “Not really. Telegraph wire can be fixed.”

  “He did more than cut that wire here in town,” Grace said. “I heard him order a couple of his men to ride in both directions. ‘Pull an Apache trick on the wires,’ is what he said. You know what that means?”

  “Yeah.” Chance frowned. “Cut the wire. Splice it with a rubber band. Tie it back to the pole. Takes a really good eye to spot it. The railroad crews’ll likely spend a few days just trying to find the cut.” He turned to Grace. “Where are the railroaders?”

  “Murphyville, most likely,” she said. “After the Rangers burned down my saloon, Savage told the railroaders they might as well head down the track to Murphyville to do their drinking. That was before they cut the wire. Savage also had one of those men send out a wire to the S.P. offices in Houston and El Paso saying the lines were down because of the weather, and that they’d likely be down for five days.”

  Chance considered that. “Five days.”

  “They could send a wire to El Paso from Murphyville,” Albavera said.

  “They won’t,” Grace said. “The captain paid them to keep quiet.”

  “Five days,” Chance repeated.

  “That’s what the lady—” Albavera turned quickly,
staring out the window. Chance heard the clopping of hooves then, and slowly drew the Smith & Wesson from behind his back. Keeping away from the window, he maneuvered his way to the wall, and stood across from Albavera. The rhythmic noise drew closer, then stopped.

  Albavera looked out the window, turned to Chance. “One horse. No rider.”

  The coal-oil lamp hanging from the wooden column cast dim yellow light on the weary brown gelding that stood in the street, head hanging down, a Cheyenne saddle hanging off-center on the right, both reins missing from the headstall.

  Chance, Albavera, and Grace had come down the stairs, and through the back door—the same door Grace had sent Linda Kincaid through, to hide in the church, when Horatius had told them he thought Savage’s Rangers were riding into Marathon. Albavera had volunteered to stay in Grace’s room, but Chance wasn’t about to leave him alone.

  Hugging the side wall tightly, Chance brought the Winchester Centennial to his shoulder, and looked down the street to the west, then east. Not that he could see much, dark as it was. He waited. The horse snorted.

  A minute passed . . . then five . . . then fifteen. Neither Grace nor Albavera ever sounded impatient, just stood behind him, waiting.

  Finally, Chance decided he could wait till dawn, or check that brown horse now. So with a slight whispered curse, he stepped away from the wall, up the boardwalk, down the steps, and walked into the street, speaking softly to the gelding, stepping lightly, shooting quick glances up and down the darkened street. Albavera and Grace were a few steps behind him.

  He shoved the stock of the Winchester under his arm, and pressed a hand against the horse’s neck. Rubbing it in a counterclockwise motion, he tried to soothe the horse, though the way it looked and felt, it was too tired to run away.

  “Easy, boy,” he said, and moved to the saddle. “Easy. You know me, boy. We’ll take good care of you.”

  He ran his hand down the saddle. The streets were dark, true, but the lanterns from the Iron Mountain Inn provided enough light for him to see the brown stains on the saddle. Dried, but still a bit tacky. Blood. A lot of it.