West Texas Kill
Page 20
Her lips parted, closed. She shook her head. “You’ll never get away with that,” she said after digesting what he’d told her.
“Who’s to stop me?” He began rolling a cigarette. “By now the Army’s loping down to Fort Leaton. They’ll get there, surround the fort, and prepare for a siege. Only there’s no one to talk to. Nobody’s left inside that fort, but it’ll take those stupid damnyankees a day or two before they figure that out.”
“What about those hostages?” Grace asked, though she knew the answer.
“You know me, Grace. I’m no good with prisoners. When the Army finally storms through the gates, they’ll find the late Mayor Childress and Congressman Hendry in the stockade.”
She swallowed. “And Father de la Vega?”
He shook his head. “And if they look hard enough, they might find Captain Bookbinder and what’s left of his bluebellies at La Mota Mountain.”
“You’re sick.”
“No, I’m Savage.” He laughed, and lit his cigarette. “Meanwhile, Austin’s scrambling. I bet Colonel Thomas doesn’t know what the hell’s going on. He thinks he has a Ranger captain gone loco, but he can’t communicate with anyone west of Sanderson. He’ll try to organize a force, but he won’t be able to get anyone to Presidio County until Tuesday or Wednesday. They’ll be heading west, and we’ll pass each other, like ships sailing across the dark seas, because I’ll be riding east. By the time he figures it out, I’ll be in Mexico.”
She laughed. “For that much money, the Army won’t be stopped by any border.”
“They’ll go through channels, though. First, they’ll contact the Rurales at Ojinaga. Then the Rurales at San Pedro.” He took a long pull on the cigarette, and blew out smoke through his nostrils. “Alas, the Rurales in both villages are now under the command of Juan Lo Grande.”
Grace reached for the glass of brandy, before remembering that Savage had polished it off. She leaned back, considering Savage again.
“Impressed, eh?”
“Repulsed.”
He blew smoke in her face, but she didn’t react.
“You’ll never get away with it, Hec.”
“Who’s to stop me? By now, your friend Dave Chance is dead.”
It was Grace Profit who laughed, a warm, musical sound, that caused Savage to straighten. “Dave? Dead?” Her head shook. “I don’t think so, Hec.”
Savage flicked the cigarette across the room, showering the adobe wall with sparks. Apparently, she had touched a nerve. She kept at it. “Besides, how do you plan to transport that much gold to Mexico? It’s eighty, ninety miles to the border, and, like you said, those bluebellies won’t be fooled at Fort Leaton forever. You’ll never be able to cross the border at Presidio.”
He smiled again. “Who said anything about Presidio? I said east, remember. We’re just gonna ride those rails all the way to Sanderson.”
A pretty good plan, Savage had always thought. They’d take over the train at Murphyville, and keep that bullion on the S.P.—all the way to Sanderson. They’d leave the train there, in that big warehouse on the sidetrack. Out of view when that westbound came barreling through to reach Murphyville or Marathon. They’d load the bullion onto wagons, and head south to the Rio Grande. The border was a hell of a lot closer from Sanderson than it was from Murphyville, and they wouldn’t have to worry about running into any Army patrols in case those yankees he’d sent to Fort Leaton got smarter. They wouldn’t have to worry about running into Juan Lo Grande’s bandits, either.
Savage grabbed the two glasses off the table and returned to the keg.
Lo Grande had ruined that, of course. He and his men were supposed to stay put in Ojinaga, get to the sheep farm after Savage and his men had robbed the train. By the time Lo Grande had figured out he had been double-crossed, Savage and his men would be headed down the Rio Grande, on the Mexican side, of course, to Matamoros, where they’d board a ship in that port city and sail to Argentina. A quarter of a million dollars would go a long way in Buenos Aires. For that much money, he could tolerate living with a bunch of ignorant greasers.
But Savage would have to figure out another plan. Lo Grande had brought twenty-six men with him. Savage had only eleven, fourteen when Taw Cutter, Eliot Thompson, and Bucky Bragg returned. Still, he wasn’t worried. Lo Grande’s men were nothing but a bunch of dirty bean-eaters, and he’d yet to meet ten damned Mexicans equal to one of Savage’s Rangers.
He filled both glasses with brandy, and walked back to the table, offering Grace a drink, which, this time, she accepted. He slid onto the chair across from her.
Her eyes were mesmerizing. He started to say something, when he heard a noise. His right hand darted to one of the revolvers on his hips, and he sat up, staring at the doorway. Juan Lo Grande, smoking a cigar, one arm wrapped around the neck of the disheveled whore from Terlingua, another on the butt of one of his fancy Colts, grinned. He brought his hand up over Linda Kincaid’s face, and removed his cigar, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. His right had remained on the revolver.
“Amigo, is it not about time for us to leave for Murphyville?”
How long has he been standing outside that door? Savage wondered, but his face showed no alarm. Besides, what had he told Grace that Lo Grande, or that damned whore, could have overheard? Nothing important, and it didn’t really matter. Lo Grande’s presence had forced him to start thinking of a new plan anyway. He’d have to get rid of Lo Grande somehow.
Permanently.
Savage brought out his watch again, released the cover, read the time, snapped it shut, and dropped it back into his pocket. “We got some time yet.”
Waving the cigar at Savage, Lo Grande said, “But not as long as you would have Juan Lo Grande think. Is that not right, mi amigo?” He returned the cigar to his mouth, catching Linda Kincaid’s throat in the crook of his arm. She looked too battered to know anything.
When Savage’s lips flattened, Lo Grande’s grin widened, and kept stretching. He almost doubled over, laughing so hard, pulling Linda Kincaid down with him. He straightened, shoved the prostitute away, and pointed the cigar at Grace Profit.
“Señorita, el capitán, he tries to fool Juan Lo Grande, no? He tells Juan Lo Grande that the train is coming to Murphyville on Sunday. That is what everybody is saying. Those politicians, those law dogs, those Army officers, they are muy smart.” He paused long enough to return the cigar to his mouth, and sucked on it, but it had gone out. He tossed it to the floor, and walked to the keg of brandy.
“But the train, all that gold, it is due to come to Murphyville on Saturday.” There were no glasses, so he knelt under the keg, turned the spigot, and let brandy splash into his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His thirst slaked, he turned off the spigot, and pulled himself up, wiping the excess brandy off his face.
“El capitán, he must think Juan Lo Grande is a fool. He must have forgotten that it was me”—he tapped his chest—“Juan Lo Grande, who let him know about the gold being shipped. It was my idea. My plan.” The smile began to fade. “If not for Juan Lo Grande, Capitán Savage would be sitting on his hindquarters in that presidio on the Rio Bravo dreaming about one day catching Juan Lo Grande.”
“Juan Lo Grande,” Savage said, “seems to have forgotten that I received orders from Austin about that trainload of gold. I knew about it.”
Clucking his tongue, wagging his finger, Juan Lo Grande shook his head. “No, no, señor. You may have known about the shipment, but not how much gold was on board. And you never would have dreamed about stealing it.” He sighed. “And now, he tries to fool Juan Lo Grande. Tries to take all that gold—too much for one man to spend, too much for even fourteen rinches—for himself, and leave old Juan Lo Grande and his muchachos to remain poor, humble bandidos.”
He hooked his thumbs in his sash. “‘E tu, Brute.’”
A noise startled both Lo Grande and Savage, and they turned toward the doorway, had their revolvers halfway out, before stopping the draws.
Something was different about Shaw. Grace realized that his hat was gone, replaced by a railroader’s cap. He brought his right hand up and tugged on an imaginary cord, then let out a loud, “Whoooooooo. Whooo. Whoo. Whooooooooo!” He broke out laughing, and said, “All aboard.”
Grace Profit killed the brandy, and set the empty glass on the chair. Linda Kincaid stood in the corner, absently twirling her bangs on one finger, her eyes vacant.
“It’s about that time, gents,” Shaw said.
“We got some time,” Savage said again.
“What if the train’s early?” Shaw asked.
Savage frowned. Lo Grande clapped his hands. “You have a good man there, rinche. I like the way he thinks.” He tapped his temple. “Muy intelligent. Takes no chances. He might ride for me someday.”
“All right.” Savage eased his .44 into the holster. “Let’s go.”
“Bueno. I will cut this puta’s throat and we shall ride.”
“No.” Savage’s command came out like a bullet.
Lo Grande turned. Grace’s fingers balled into fists.
“Amigo,” Lo Grande said. “It is—”
“Don’t quote your Shakespeare, Lo Grande. It ain’t right.”
“What? That I quote Shakespeare? He was a brilliant writer, my friend.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Though, Savage thought, it wasn’t right for Juan Lo Grande, a damned Mexican, to be quoting an English writer, a white man. He pointed at the Terlingua whore. “You leave her be. You’re not harming a woman.”
“We cannot leave her here.”
“Where’s she going? She’ll stay here.”
“But—”
“No buts. She stays here. She stays alive.” Hell, she was half dead already, thanks to Lo Grande and his men.
“But she can tell the law—”
“The law’ll know who we are and what all we’ve done whether that whore’s alive or not. She stays. She lives.” His hand rested on the butt of the Merwin Hulbert. “You want to argue that point?”
Slowly, Lo Grande shook his head. “No. It will be as you say, el capitán.”
Savage figured that son of a bitch would send some of his riders back there after they’d left, to ravage and kill Linda Kincaid. He didn’t like that, but didn’t know how he could stop it from happening. Then he realized that would be two less bandits he’d have to worry about.
The Mexican tilted his chin at Grace. “But what of her?”
Savage helped her out of the chair. “She comes with us.”
Grace looked up at him, curious.
He’d be damned if he’d let Lo Grande’s men get their hands on her. Besides, she might come in handy. “Just in case,” Savage said, smiling with his lips if not his eyes. “I promised I’d buy you a new saloon, Grace. Remember?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
For thirty minutes, they stood among the Mexican walnut trees, Dave Chance and Don Melitón Benton, watching, waiting. Behind them Moses Albavera held the reins to the horses, making sure the animals kept quiet. The morning sun warmed them, shining through the massive branches. The only noise came from the bleating of the sheep, and the trickle of water flowing over rocks in Calamity Creek.
Finally, Don Melitón spoke, his voice bitter. “I should have known better than to believe anything you told me, rinche.”
Chance’s stomach knotted. He tried flexing his fingers in his throbbing left hand, let out a sigh, and stepped into the clearing. Slowly, he turned, looked back at Albavera, as if seeking reassurance. The black man’s face was blank. Running his hand across the beard stubble on his face, shaking his head, Chance turned back and studied the compound of La Oveja.
Deserted.
How could he have guessed wrong? He took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. He would have sworn he had been right. Savage and Lo Grande had to be there. It had all seemed so palpable. He studied the compound again. Something wasn’t right.
“Where are your Rangers, señor? Where is Juan Lo Grande?” With contempt, Don Melitón spat in the dust, and strode toward the horses.
It hit Chance suddenly. He finally figured out what was wrong. “Where’s your sheepherder?” Chance called out defiantly. “Where’s his grandson?”
That stopped the old man. Sheep were scattered everywhere.
“Ground’s been chewed up by horses,” Albavera said. “And, unless my eyes are failing me, there’s a lot of horse dung in those corrals.”
The old man turned, his face solemn, the anger gone.
A moment later, a horse whinnied.
The sound of hooves echoed down the canyon, and Don Melitón and Chance rushed to the horses, putting their hands over the animals’ muzzles. Chance drew his Schofield, easing back the hammer. The three men looked down the trail. A few minutes later, two horses splashed across Calamity Creek and came into view.
In a mighty big hurry, two Mexicans loped down the path, scattering ewes, and rode through the open gate at the stone fence. The taller one said something, prompting a chuckle from the fat, gray-bearded one, as they reined in their mounts, and swung down from the saddles, wrapping the reins around the top post of one of the corrals. The tall man ran into one of the buildings. The fat one took the other.
Inside the closest building, a woman screamed.
Chance took off running.
He was through the stone fence, gun in hand, heading toward the corrals when the heavy graybeard stormed through the open door, hurrying to the other building. He spotted Chance charging toward him out of the corner of his eye. The fat man slid to a stop, shouting, “Eladio! Eladio!” He jerked an old cap-and-ball pistol from his waistband.
Chance fired. Dust flew off the adobe wall next to the big man’s head. Still running, Chance snapped off another shot.
The Mexican jumped to his right, rushing his shot. The bullet sailed far to Chance’s left. He didn’t even break stride, and pulled the trigger again. The big man dropped to a knee.
At that moment, the tall one, Eladio, appeared in the doorway, his laugh dying in his throat. He shoved a figure behind him, reaching for a silver-plated pistol in a concho-studded holster on his left hip. “Esta es mía,” he said, thumbing back the hammer on his Remington.
Chance fired again, still running. The fat man’s head exploded in a fountain of crimson, and Chance dived to his left. Another gun roared. The tall Mexican stopped laughing and started screaming as he fell, his left arm shattered by the chunk of lead fired from Moses Albavera’s sawed-off Springfield.
Chance loosed a shot that splintered the doorjamb. The Mexican pulled himself to his knees, tried to slam the door, but it stopped about halfway open. By then, Chance was on the portal, catching his breath. His eyes found the fat Mexican, dead. Breaking open the Schofield, he ejected the spent shells, and filled every cylinder with a live round.
Moses Albavera flung himself on the other side of the door. He, too, quickly reloaded his rifle.
The two men’s eyes met.
Before Chance could speak, a shout came from inside. The language was Spanish, the voice pained, rapid, as if he spoke while grimacing. Albavera shot Chance another look. “He’s talking too fast for me,” Chance said. “You catch any of that?”
Albavera shook his head.
Don Melitón spoke, his voice calm as he walked across the yard. “He says if you come inside, he will kill the girl.”
“What girl?” Albavera asked.
The old man shrugged. He reached down and pried the old revolver from the dead Mexican’s hand.
They heard another panicked shout in Spanish.
“He says for you to drop your pistols. To back away toward the corral.”
More shouts.
“He says to do this now. He does not want to harm the girl.”
Chance see
thed.
The Spanish continued.
“He says he will not hurt you, either. All he wishes to do is to mount his caballo and return to Juan Lo Grande.”
The Mexican yelled a final demand.
“Do so, now, he says, or the girl will begin her stay in Purgatory.”
Don Melitón examined the revolver in his hand, then let it fall atop the dead man’s back, and walked toward the corral. Swearing an oath underneath his breath, Chance laid the Schofield on the flagstone portal, and began backing his way toward the corral, slipping one hand behind his back, near the Smith & Wesson .32. Albavera shook his head, but finally leaned the sawed-off Springfield against a cottonwood column, and joined the old man and Ranger at the corral. The don called out in Missouri Spanish, and, a short while later, the tall Mexican, his face soaked with sweat, his left arm dripping blood, appeared behind the ashen face of Linda Kincaid.
The tall man stopped when he saw the body of his comrade, and slowly brought up the Colt, using it to make the sign of the cross over Linda’s chest. He whispered something to her, and she stepped forward, slowly easing toward the two horses tethered to the corral, the barrel of the pistol pressed against her ear. The bandit’s eyes shot from Chance to Albavera to the don, and back again.
Stopping, the Mexican waved the pistol at the three men, who carefully moved away from the horses until they stood beside the well.
He spoke to Linda in Spanish, but she didn’t understand. He swore, backed to the posts, and tried to use his left arm to grab the reins to a lathered bay gelding. His arm wouldn’t work. He spoke again, a hoarse shout, and grabbed the reins with his gun hand, releasing Linda, using the horse as a shield.
Chance’s hand tightened on the butt of the .32.
The horse, frightened by the smell of blood, snorted and began backing away. Twisting its head, it started to rear, and then the Mexican was on the ground, facedown. Linda ran toward Don Melitón, and the horse galloped out of La Oveja.