West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  The wind was at their back, pounding them with sleet and a harsh wind. They kept to a deep arroyo, the sides full of junipers, which protected them a little from the weather, but not much. For the past couple days, Savage and Grace had hidden in a cave in the Big Bend, resting their horses, resting themselves. It wasn’t bad, having Grace Profit crippled with two busted ankles. He could leave her in the cave, while he went out to scout, or find some grub. It wasn’t like she was going anywhere. Hell, she couldn’t even mount a horse, and she knew better than to scream if she heard someone outside the cave. She understood what would happen to her if Lo Grande’s men caught her.

  Lo Grande. That troubled Savage. He had seen nothing of those bandits since he had killed Doc Shaw. It was like those damned Mexicans had given up, or been swallowed up by the rugged, mountainous high desert country.

  Maybe the Army or a posse of Rangers had caught up with Lo Grande. No . . . no, he would have heard the gunshots. Sounds carried a long distance out there, and if Lo Grande and his men were dead, the men who had killed them would still be combing the countryside for Hec Savage.

  Maybe Lo Grande had given up, crossed the border, returned to Ojinaga or San Pedro. Savage had to snort at that thought. Give up? Lo Grande? After being double-crossed? After being robbed of a fortune?

  Savage couldn’t risk staying any longer, though. The horses were refreshed, ready. He knew he needed to get across the border, and start heading east. Eighty-four hundred dollars was a long way from two hundred and fifty thousand, but it could buy him a lot. It could keep him from getting hanged.

  He had hoped the storm would blow itself out. Instead, its intensity picked up. His fingers were numb, and he was wearing gloves. His lips were chapped, his face felt raw. He cursed his luck. His horse stepped in a hole, stumbled. Cursing again, he lurched forward and back as the horse regained its balance, then plodded along.

  “How about a glass of tequila, Grace?” he yelled back. “Beefsteak and beans? Maybe even some coffee? That sound all right to you? Maybe even a nice straw bed?”

  He didn’t expect her to answer. He kept riding, head bent, lungs aching.

  They reached the end of the arroyo. “All right, honey, you need to hang on tight to that horn. We gotta climb out of this. The river’s only another mile or so. We’ll be in Mexico in no time.”

  Twisting in the saddle, he looked back at the horse he was leading.

  “Ah, hell.”

  The saddle was empty.

  It was the damnedest thing. She didn’t feel cold at all.

  She couldn’t remember slipping out of the saddle. One minute she had been riding, head low, body aching, bitterly cold, and the next thing she knew she was lying on a bed of rocks, nose seeping blood, hands scratched all to hell, ankles burning like a son of a bitch.

  But she wasn’t cold.

  She had lost Savage’s coat. Didn’t recall when. She looked southwest, down the arroyo, but saw only falling sleet. She looked in the other direction, but sleet blasted her face. Rolling over, cursing from the pain in her legs, she stretched her right arm ahead, grabbed a rock, and pulled herself forward. Reaching with her left hand, she grabbed a root from a juniper, and dragged herself a little more.

  Grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . .

  She stopped, desperately trying to catch her breath. A tear rolled down her cheek. Her legs burned terribly, but at least they weren’t numb, as they were when they’d first left the cave. She rolled over, tried to guess at the time, but saw only white and gray.

  Rolling back onto her stomach, she pressed her face on the ice-covered ground. That cooled her off. It would be so easy to just close her eyes, go to sleep, let the sleet cover her. So easy to just give up.

  So easy to lie there and die.

  “Like hell I will.”

  Her eyes shot open. She bit her lower lip. Reaching out, she found a rock slippery with ice, and dragged herself a few inches more. Then reached with her left hand.

  Grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . . grab . . . drag . . .

  She reached the edge of the arroyo, shielded partly by an uprooted juniper and mounds of sand and rocks. The wind and sleet moaned over her head. Grace pulled herself up until her back rested against the wall. Leaning forward, she put her hands on her knees.

  Pain rocked her. She fell back.

  Another tear stung her cheeks, and she could no longer hold the river. Tears flooded, and she choked out sobs. Snot and blood froze underneath her nostrils. She sucked in bitterly cold air through her mouth. Her teeth hurt.

  She leaned her head back, and tried to figure out just what she could do.

  She couldn’t walk. Could barely crawl.

  Looking up at the arroyo wall, three feet above her head, she knew she’d never be able to climb out there. Not with both of her ankles broken. Maybe somewhere else, but to leave the protection of the downed juniper . . . she’d never make it. It had to be twenty degrees. The wind made it feel even colder.

  This is desert, she told God. It isn’t supposed to be like this.

  This is hell. It’s supposed to be hot.

  She wrapped her arms around her ribs, began rocking back and forth, back and forth, shaking her head, trying to figure out how she was supposed to pray.

  Rough hands grabbed her shoulder, lifted her back. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Dave?” she cried out, wanting to reach for him—wanting to kiss him.”Dave!”

  “Grace.” The voice sounded so distant.

  Suddenly, she shivered. “No,” she said.

  “Grace,” Hec Savage said again, shattering the vision of Dave Chance. Taking off one of his gloves, Savage put the back of his hand against her cheek, against her forehead.

  “Christ, Grace, you’re burning up.” He stood, looked on the other side of the juniper, then turned, looking back down the arroyo. “Where’s my coat? The coat I gave you?”

  She shrugged.

  He lifted her to her feet. She moaned, and fell back against the arroyo wall.

  “Did you jump out of the saddle? Or fall?”

  “I . . . don’t . . . know.” She was still sobbing. Couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop shaking. Her stomach rumbled. She thought she might throw up.

  “We gotta get you to a doctor,” Savage said. “Even a bean doctor. To shelter. Something. Come on. Lean on me, honey. I’ve got your horse. Our horses. Right over yonder.”

  He lifted her over his shoulder, and like a sack of wheat, got her into the saddle. She leaned over, and sprayed vomit over the horse’s withers. Savage pulled a handkerchief, and wiped her mouth. He cleaned the mess off the horn and the horsehair, and tossed the piece of cloth onto the ground.

  “Here.” He cut off a string behind the saddle, wrapped it around her wrists, and secured her to the horn. “Now you won’t fall off. Come on. Don’t you fret none, Grace, my dear. I’ll have you to some Mexican pill-roller and you’ll be dancing before you know it. Maybe we’ll make it down to Buenos Aires after all. Maybe I can still buy you a nice little saloon. Got to be cheap down that way. ’Course, you’ll still have to be making your own whiskey. Don’t think we’ll be able to afford any Manhattan rye.”

  He talked as he mounted his horse, kept talking as he pulled Grace behind him, back down the arroyo, then up and out. He kept talking about Buenos Aires, about his old ranch in Bexar County, about growing up in Texas, about those damned Mexicans, about his years as a Ranger, about the first time he had laid eyes on Grace Profit, about her whiskey, about Juan Lo Grande, about how he had hated to have killed Doc Shaw, even about Dave Chance.

  It didn’t matter that Grace couldn’t hear what he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  There wasn’t much to the village of Boquillas del Carmen, which lay just over the Mexican border where the Rio Grande flowed into Boquillas Canyon. Silver and lead mining had begun there a few years ago. The Consolidated Kansas City Smelting and Refining Company had built a pr
ocessing plant on the American side of the river, and a cable tramway to bring ore across the border. After processing, it was shipped to the railroad in Marathon.

  Sometimes, when the miners got paid, the cantina bustled with activity, and, sometimes, when the gringos working at the processing plant got paid, they crossed the river to partake of cheaper beer, tequila, and Mexican women. But on a night like that one, Boquillas was dead.

  The only light Hec Savage saw came from the little adobe church at the edge of town, which consisted of a few scattered homes and businesses, and a ramshackle corral and livery. He eased his horse down the sleet-crusted street, and pulled the one carrying Grace Profit toward the Catholic church.

  A door opened, then shut. Savage reined up and aimed the Merwin Hulbert at the peon woman who had stepped out of her jacal. Giving his shadowy figure a moment’s glance, she pulled her cloak tightly, and hurried across the street toward the church. Savage followed her, studying the shadows, the buildings, watching the woman as she entered the church, closing the door behind her.

  He rode past the well in the center of the street. Stopping in front of the church, he climbed down from the saddle, pulled the heavy bags off the back of his horse, and slung them over his left shoulder. Next, he drew Grace’s mount over to the hitching post, wrapped the reins around it, and sliced through the rawhide that held her pale hands to the horn. She was half dead, her breathing ragged, her body cold to the touch, but she was still alive. He draped her over his right shoulder, and moved to the door.

  Inside the adobe building, he immediately felt warm—God’s blanket of love, he thought mockingly, or some such nonsense—and carried Grace and the saddlebags past the peon woman lighting a candle to the pew nearest the potbelly stove at the front of the church. Two priests in their scratchy brown woolen robes, bound at the waist by plain cords, hoods over their heads, watched from the altar.

  “Get down here, damn you,” Savage roared at the priests. “This woman’s hurt. Sick. Needs some help. Socorro . Socorro.” Not pleading for help. Demanding it.

  Stepping away, he holstered his revolver, and patted the saddlebags as the priests moved off the altar and crossed the flagstone floor. The woman lit her candle and hurried to the pew, kneeling, whispering something in Spanish, brushing Grace’s wet bangs off her forehead.

  “Her ankles are busted,” Savage said. “Both of them.”

  The woman removed her cloak and wrapped it around Grace’s body.

  Savage wet his lips. He wanted a drink and wondered if he might be able to find some communion wine in that miserable excuse of a church. When he turned back toward the priests, his right hand dashed for the Merwin Hulbert on his right hip.

  “No,” the priest said—only he wasn’t a priest. Or if he were one, he was the first man of God Savage had seen pointing a cocked Starr revolver at his belly. Savage’s hand gripped the butt of the .44, but he slowly let go, and raised his hands.

  The priest pulled down his hood with his left hand, and said something in Spanish. The other Mexican went to Savage and took both pistols from their holsters, dropping them by Grace Profit’s boots on the pew, then shoved Savage toward the altar. The priest with the Starr spoke again in Spanish, and the second man hurried out of the church and into the darkness.

  Savage turned.”You sabe English?”

  The man just stared at him with hard eyes.

  “English. You sabe English?”

  “Silencio,” the man said.

  “Ah, hell’s fire,” Savage said, and he knew. He knew it before the second padre returned, followed by six other Mexicans, including one holding a bottle of tequila.

  “‘All’s well that ends well.’ No?” Juan Lo Grande took a slug of tequila, tossed the bottle to another bean-eater, and strode up the aisle to the altar.

  “Allow me, amigo.” He pulled the saddlebags off Savage’s shoulder. “Ah, this is heavy. Very heavy.”

  He laid the bags on the pulpit, and opened one, stared inside, and raised his dark, smiling eyes at Savage. “Muy bien.” He opened the other bag, and frowned. “One bar. That is all?”

  “You saw what happened. Damned law dogs rammed our train. I was lucky to make off with that.”

  Lo Grande wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood, gave Grace Profit and the woman tending her a brief glance, then positioned himself in front of Hec Savage. “How much is one bar worth?”

  “If Doc Shaw was right, about eighty-four hundred dollars American.”

  He nodded. “That is better than a coffin and a cross, no?”

  “How’d you know I’d come to this miserable excuse for a burg?”

  Lo Grande shrugged. “When you were in the Big Bend, Juan Lo Grande thought”—he tapped his temple—“where would Hec Savage go? The only suitable crossing is at Boquillas Del Carmen. It was also the nearest place with grog. With tequila. So here I came with some of my men. Other men are at Ojinaga and San Pedro. Though I doubted you would be foolish enough to go there. More are riding along the river between the Cibolo and the Maravillas. In such weather, too. What brave men Juan Lo Grande has. We would find you if you dared enter Mexico.”

  He stepped closer. “But to be honest, I did not think you would come to Mexico. I thought you would ride west, maybe to El Paso. Or north. Everyone would think you would race to the border, and Hector Savage is too smart a man to do what everyone would think.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “But, no, Capitán Savage is not so smart. He is as dumb as every other bandido who is too lazy to work for an honest living. This is what I thought. Or maybe I thought, los rinches would kill you in Texas. In which case, poor Juan Lo Grande could never collect his share of the bullion we steal together. We steal together . . .” The words trailed off. “‘Men at some time were masters of their fates. . . .’” Lo Grande’s smile vanished. “The streets of Murphyville run red with the blood of many of my men, capitán.”

  He cuffed Savage across the cheek with his backhand.

  Savage spit in Lo Grande’s face.

  That was the last thing Savage remembered for a while.

  The sleet had stopped by the time Dave Chance and Moses Albavera came out of the Sierra del Caballo Muerto—Dead Horse Mountains—on the Texas side of the Rio Grande, but the wind had not relented.

  At least it was blowing at their backs as they rode alongside the banks a while, then entered the frigid but shallow water.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” Albavera had to shout over the wind and splashing water to be heard.

  Actually, Chance wasn’t sure of anything anymore, but it seemed as good a guess as any he had. “Only place Savage could cross is here,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

  “Yeah, but there’s a town here,” Albavera argued. “Seems to me that your captain would want to avoid any towns.”

  Chance snorted. “Boquillas del Carmen isn’t much of a town.”

  At which point, they were in Mexico.

  He ducked underneath an ice-covered tree limb, and let the horse pick its path up the bank, then followed a small trail through rocks and brush until they hit the main road. Side-by-side they reached the outskirts of Boquillas. Long before they saw the faint outlines of the town in the dark, laughter reached them.

  “Hey,” Albavera said easily. “Looks like the miners have gotten paid. I’ll be in that cantina, dealing stud, relieving those poor souls of their pay while you search this dot on a map for Savage.”

  Chance didn’t reply. He swung off his horse, and wrapped the reins around the top rail of a corral next to a crumbling adobe building. Light glowed from the windows of the cantina. A barrel-chested Mexican staggered out, yelling something over his shoulder, and carrying what appeared to be a rope in one hand, and a jug in the other. He headed for the church at the west end of town.

  There wasn’t much to Boquillas. The cantina. A church. A few sod, stone, and adobe structures. The mine headquarters, and the office of the village alcalde.
Yet the corral was full of horses, and lying alongside the adobe wall were saddles and tack far too fancy to belong to any miner, especially some hard-rock miner in a dumpy little village like Boquillas.

  The wind had stopped, the storm blowing itself southeast. Chance heard the creaking of leather as Albavera dismounted, heard him draw his sawed-off Springfield. Apparently, something about the scene struck the gambler as false, too.

  One of their horses whinnied. A stallion in the corral answered, snorting, and stamping its hooves. Chance’s horse kicked out, its hooves striking a pile of adobe blocks.

  The man with the rope and the jug stopped underneath the awning of the church. He rubbed his beard, and started walking toward the corral.

  Crouching, Albavera took off, leaving his horse behind, and rounded the corner of the adobe wall.

  “¿Qué es lo que pasa?” the Mexican called.

  Chance knelt, pushed his hat off, fell onto his good hand, and called out weakly, “Amigo . . . me siento enfermo. ” Hell, I sound as Mexican as Don Melitón or Captain Savage. Yet the Mexican rounding the corral must have been too drunk to have noticed. After an exaggerated groan, Chance pretended to gag. “Necesito un médico.”

  He heard the Mexican’s footsteps, saw his soiled boots.

  “¿Bueno, qué le pasa?” The Mexican reached down, and Chance lifted his face. The Mexican jumped back, dropping his jug, yelling, “¿Cómo? !Dios mío!”

  Chance saw the shadow behind the Mexican about the time the Mexican felt the presence. He was turning, reaching for an old cap-and-ball relic in his waistband when the barrel of Albavera’s sawed-off rifle clobbered his skull, and he sank into the melting ice and mud with a small groan.

  Albavera slid beside the unconscious Mexican, and looked at his jacket. “Rurale.”

  “Bandit,” Chance corrected, drawing the Marlin from the scabbard, “in a Rurale uniform.”