West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “One of Lo Grande’s men?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  A roar of laughter exploded out of the cantina.

  Albavera found the bandit’s pistol, and heaved it behind the adobe blocks. “Well, if Lo Grande’s here, and those boys are celebrating . . .”

  Chance tilted his jaw at the church. “I don’t think this old boy was going to confession.”

  He looked across the town. Light shown from the church’s windows. The door opened, and a figure emerged, “Celso!” he yelled. “Celso!” Muttering something, he waved his hand toward the cantina, and returned inside the church.

  Chance rubbed the beard stubble on his chin. “I’m going.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t care what you do.” Chance crouched, and took off in a low sprint down the street. Albavera stifled a curse, and ran after Chance, keeping his eyes and the barrel of the Springfield trained on the door to the cantina. Once past it, they ducked beside the well in the center of the street, and caught their breath, before continuing until both men were standing flat against the adobe wall, on either side of the door.

  Chance’s left arm throbbed in the sling.

  “We don’t know how many men are inside,” Albavera said.

  Chance figured most of those men were in the cantina, and pretty well roostered on tequila by now. “Let’s find out.” He thumbed back the hammer of the Marlin.

  “I’ve never shot up a Catholic church before,” Albavera said.

  “I was raised Baptist. You?”

  Albavera shrugged. “Pagan.”

  Chance grabbed the pull, pressed the lock, and pushed the door open. Stepping into the church, he moved to his right. Albavera went in, Springfield ready, and dived behind a pew to his left.

  The door banged against the corner and slammed shut behind them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  When Chance was in the church, when he saw Hec Savage standing, on a wobbly chair on the altar, a rope around his neck, the other end secured to a viga, hands tied in front of him, Chance’s mind flashed back to Fort Stockton and the Bad Water Saloon.

  He had just slapped the handcuffs on an unconscious Dawg Goolsby after buffaloing the murdering son of a bitch with his .45. Later, he figured his mistake in thinking the patrons of a bucket of blood like the Bad Water Saloon would respect the badge on his vest, that they wouldn’t come to the aid of a wanted felon. And that he should never holster his revolver or turn his back on armed men in a saloon. But he was a greenhorn lawman back then, and had barely lived to learn a valuable lesson.

  He heard the footsteps, but remained focused on getting those bracelets on Dawg Goolsby. As he turned, unsuspecting, a whiskey bottle—empty, naturally—smashed across his forehead.

  They dumped a spittoon on his face, the tobacco juice burning the cuts on his forehead and over his eye. The juice and water burned his eyes, blurred his vision. He blinked, tried to speak, but something was tightening around his throat, burning, cutting. When his vision cleared at last, he realized he was standing on a rickety chair in the center of the Bad Water Saloon, wearing those iron cuffs he had been putting on Dawg Goolsby. A rope was tight across his neck, looped over a beam in the saloon’s ceiling, and secured to a whiskey barrel behind the bar.

  “Well, well, well.” Dawg Goolsby threw down a shot of scamper juice, and thumbed back the hammer of a Schofield—Chance’s revolver—and laughed. “A new Texas Ranger. Come to Stockton to protect the innocents. Thought he’d deliver June Goolsby to the gallows.”

  “June?” One of the patrons laughed.

  Goolsby shot his hat off.

  The laughter died.

  “Well,” he said, blowing smoke from the barrel, and turning back to face Chance, “let’s see how you like dancing with a rope ’round your neck as a partner.” Cocking the hammer, Goolsby took a couple steps closer to the chair, extended his arm, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet splintered one leg, and Chance almost slipped. The rope bit deeper into his neck. His lungs and brain screamed for oxygen.

  “Nice shot, Dawg!” one of the patrons cheered.

  “Gun pulls a mite to the right,” Goolsby said, earring back the hammer again.

  The hell it does, Chance thought. You’re just too damned drunk to shoot better.

  But he knew Goolsby’s aim wasn’t that far off. The next shot broke the leg, and the chair tilted forward. Chance gagged, almost slipped, somehow maintaining his balance, but it was hopeless. He was about to black out, slip off, and fall into eternity.

  The doors to the saloon crashed open, and a shotgun roared as Chance twisted, turned, and felt the chair overturn. The rope pulled on his neck. The world went black.

  When he came to, Dawg Goolsby was lying dead, his chest torn apart by buckshot fired by Hec Savage’s Parker shotgun. One barrel had caught Goolsby as he turned. The other had cut through the rope above Chance’s head and sent him crashing to the floor.

  “One Ranger ought to have been enough to take care of Goolsby, young fella,” Savage said. “I don’t cotton to Rangers who need someone to back their play. Remember that.”

  Chance had.

  Chance braced the rifle’s stock against his hip. Holding it with his good hand, he swept it across the church, pulling the trigger. A man in the coarse woolen robe of a priest slammed against the wall, dropping a double-action revolver, groaning, sliding down, leaving a trail of blood on the whitewash behind him.

  Another man jerked the chair from underneath Savage’s feet, and dived behind the pulpit. A second man in a priest’s robe staggered from a rear room, dropping basket-wrapped bottles of wine on the floor, reaching for a revolver. A woman kneeling in front of the first pew lifted her head, screamed, ducked, and repeated a rosary.

  Chance tried to work the Marlin’s lever with one hand, but gave up and drew his Schofield. He aimed it at a man in the back of the church. The bandit’s pistol bucked first, the bullet sending splinters from the back of the pew into Chance’s cheek. He ducked as another bullet whined off the back wall.

  Albavera came up, aimed the Springfield at the “priest” grabbing for his gun.

  “Not him!” Chance yelled. “The rope!”

  Albavera shot him a quick glance, then turned the Springfield. Hec Savage was swinging, twisting, his legs kicking. Albavera’s gun sang out, and the hangman’s rope severed. Savage crashed to the floor, rolled, and quickly disappeared.

  Laying the Schofield on the floor, Chance grabbed the Marlin, and looked across the aisle at Albavera as he reloaded the Springfield. “Here. Catch.” He flung the rifle across the aisle. The butt landed on the flagstone, and flipped the rifle across the Moor’s legs.

  From outside came curses, shots, and the pounding of feet. Two more bullets lodged into the door before it was opened.

  Chance and Albavera raised their weapons. A figure in a brown robe ran inside, slamming the door behind him. He turned, his face paling. A pewter cross hung around his neck. He was Mexican, but something about his face told them he was truly a man of God. Even the two bandidos at the front of the church held their fire.

  “If I were you, padre,” Chance said, “I’d bolt that door.”

  “And duck,” Albavera added.

  Chance wasn’t sure if the priest understood English, but he quickly began drawing a long oak bar through the iron brackets, securing the door.

  “No, padre, no!” someone yelled from the front of the church.

  Albavera moved down the back row toward the wall. Chance picked up the Schofield, and did the same on the other side. When they reached the end of the pews, they turned and looked at each other. Chance held up three fingers. Counting, he mouthed the words.

  One . . .

  Two...

  Then he stood. So did Albavera. He fired first, at the bandit in the robe, off to the side, near the pulpit. The Marlin’s slug tore through the Mexican’s shoulder, and he crumpled to the floor. Chance took off down the si
de aisle. Above the ringing in his ears, he heard the priest shout something.

  Another figure appeared, and snapped a shot at Chance, blasting a santero on a shelf. Chance turned, tried to steady the Schofield, then heard another shot, and saw smoke belch from behind the first pew. The Mexican in the center aisle cried out. He fired, putting a round into the ceiling as another shot tore through his chest, but the man was dead before he fell across the back of a pew. He dropped his pistol, and toppled to the floor

  The sounds of gunshots died. The smoke slowly dissipated. The woman in the front of the church prayed in Spanish. Men pounded at the front door, but the oak bar refused to give. Chance and Albavera trained their guns on that first pew. Hec Savage was behind it, and he had a gun. Unconcerned, the priest walked down the center aisle, crossing himself, shooting angry glances at Albavera and Chance. “Have you no decency? Have you no shame? How dare you stain this hallowed place with blood, with violence!”

  His English was pretty good.

  “Is there a back door to this place?” Chance yelled.

  The priest glared.

  “Answer me!”

  “No.” The priest gestured at the front door, which was shuddering, but not breaking. “This is the only entrance.”

  Chance nodded, walking toward the first pew, his gun cocked.

  A voice stopped him. Stopped the priest. And Albavera, too.

  “Is that you, Sergeant Chance?”

  Instinctively, Chance ducked behind a pew, and brought his gun up level, bracing his arm against the back of the wooden seat. “It’s me, Captain,” he said at last.

  “I thought so. Reckon we’re even now. For Fort Stockton.”

  Chance tried to think of some reply. Couldn’t.

  “Grace is up here with me, Dave. So is some greaser woman praying to be delivered.”

  Chance tried to swallow, but couldn’t work up enough spit. “Thought you didn’t hold with harming womenfolk.”

  “Times have changed.”

  The doors strained. The Mexicans outside shouted. A gun was fired, but the bullet couldn’t penetrate the thick door.

  “You and him drop your weapons. Or I blow Grace’s head off.”

  The pounding on the door continued.

  “You might need our guns, Captain.”

  “I don’t think so, Dave. I’ll ask that padre for sanctuary. Till Lo Grande’s boys decide it ain’t worth it. Not with old Juan Lo Grande lying dead.”

  So that was Lo Grande in the center aisle.

  “You are not worthy of sanctuary.” The priest resumed his walk. “You come into this house of the Lord with guns. You kill.” He stopped by the dead man, Lo Grande, and began blessing the corpse.

  “Guns on the floor, boys.” Savage’s voice had an edge to it.

  Cursing, Chance let the Schofield drop. Across the church, Albavera tossed the Marlin on the seat of a pew, and unbuckled his gunbelt. He laid it and the Springfield on the next pew.

  “It’s done, Captain,” Chance said.

  “How do I know?”

  “You’ve my word on it, Captain. Just let Grace alone.”

  His tied hands, holding a Merwin Hulbert revolver, appeared first. Then grunting, Savage pushed himself to his feet, the rope still wrapped around his neck. He tried to smile, staggered back, and sat on the pulpit. He motioned Chance and Albavera to come on up.

  The priest finished with Lo Grande, then moved to another corpse.

  The pounding on the door continued.

  “It’s over, Captain,” Chance tried.

  Savage grinned. “For you. Not me. Hey, you, woman. Come here. I want you to cut this rope off my hands. Take this rope off my neck. I can’t do it. Not without tempting Sergeant Chance”—his eyes shot across the room—“or his Moor.”

  The woman lifted her head. Rising, the priest repeated Savage’s instructions in Spanish.

  “Come on,” Savage ordered. “Take the knife off that dead one there. Muy pronto, por favor.”

  The woman moved forward, leaned over the dead man, and slipped a knife from its sheath. Seconds later, Savage was standing, flexing his muscles, and the woman was sitting on the front pew, her head bowed, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

  The pounding on the door continued.

  Chance eased to the front row, and saw Grace Profit lying there, so pale, so haggard. His face tightened. He knelt beside her, and took her hand in his own.

  “I could have left her in the Big Bend, Dave,” Savage said. “Could have left her to die. But I’m no monster. I brought her here. To save her life. Damned near cost me mine.”

  Eyes still on Grace, Chance whispered. “It still might.”

  Savage snorted. “Padre, you go to that door. You tell them boys that their leader is dead. You tell them that I’ve asked for sanctuary, and you’ve given it to me. You tell them to ride out of Boquillas for San Pedro, or to hell for all I care, and you tell them to get gone and get gone now. They’ll trust you. They believe in God. Believe in a man like you. I seen it with my own eyes in San Pedro. They ride for the devil.” He looked at Lo Grande’s body and chuckled. “Rode for the devil, I mean. But they got the faith. Do it.”

  The priest stared. Savage cocked the pistol. The priest turned, and walked up the aisle toward the door.

  Savage let out a long breath. Reaching into his vest pocket with his left hand, he pulled out a little gold cross, and held it up in the candlelight. “Here, Dave. You might want to kiss this. Make your peace. You and your Moor.” He sent the cross sailing across the altar, and reached again in his pocket—for the makings of a smoke.

  At that moment, the Mexican woman looked up. Screaming something in Spanish, she yelled a pitiful cry of anguish so piercing it caused Chance’s skin to crawl. Caused Savage to drop his tobacco pouch. He started to ask . . .

  Then saw the other Merwin Hulbert, the one he had left on the pew, in the woman’s hand. He saw the muzzle flash, and felt the bullet slam into his chest. Heard another explosion, and felt another bullet strike his side—like he’d been struck twice by a sledgehammer. His gun slipped from his hand.

  Dave Chance turned, yelling. Moses Albavera dashed across the room. The woman was screaming, crying. Putting the muzzle of the .44 under her chin, she turned toward the priest, begging. She pulled the trigger as Chance launched himself, futilely, toward her, yelling, “Don’t!”

  The priest knelt by the dead woman, covering her face. He crossed himself, crossed her, his head bowed.

  “I hate . . .” Hec Savage, still standing, though he was leaning on the lectern for support, spit out a glob of blood. “Hate to see a woman hurt . . . even one that . . . has . . . killed me.” Blood trickled from his lips. He looked at the priest.

  “What was it . . . she . . . was saying?”

  The priest finished his prayer, and stared up at Savage with merciless eyes. “The crucifix belonged to her son. Jaime Bautista Moreno, a lieutenant with the Rurales in San Pedro. He was murdered on the river west of here. She said that you must have killed him, so she was sending you to hell before joining her beloved son in heaven.”

  “I’ll be . . . damned.” Hec Savage laughed. Coughed. “That’s . . . hell . . . justice . . . ain’t it?”

  He let go of his hold on the lectern, and fell dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “And then?” Grace Profit cringed at the pain in her ankles. “How’d we get out of that church in Boquillas?”

  Chance shook his head. “Don Melitón and his vaqueros rode up about ten minutes later. God-fearing men or not, Lo Grande’s men were ready to set fire to the church. The don . . .”

  Grace sat up in her bunk. “I thought Don Melitón was dead. Captain Savage shot him.”

  “Oh, the don was lying in an ambulance. His segundo did most of the talking.”

  “I can imagine how.”

  Chance smiled. “Well, Lo Grande’s men took off. The don said he was going to Meoqui. Said he trusted the doctors down there better
than—” He cut himself off, tried to swallow down what he had said.

  Grace laughed. “Well, these sawbones here haven’t cut off my legs yet. They seem to think I’ll be walking, back to my old self, in no time. I think they just don’t want me to leave, that they enjoy my company. That’s why they’re keeping me here longer.”

  Chance leaned back. They were in the post hospital at Fort Davis. Chance’s left arm was in a cast, his left hand bandaged. It itched like a son of a bitch. He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable Grace Profit was with casts on both ankles, and a bandage wrapped around her forehead. Both hands were wrapped in gauze, too.

  “And Savage?”

  Chance shrugged, and brushed the bandage on his cheek. It itched a mite, too. “We dragged the bodies out of the church. One of Lo Grande’s men was still alive, so we tied him up, put a sock in the hole in his shoulder, and turned him over to the alcalde. The priest and alcalde fixed you up as best as they could, and procured a wagon for you. By then it was just about dawn, and Moses and I brought you back here.” He coughed. “I think we’d worn out our welcome in Boquillas.”

  “I asked about Hec Savage.”

  “Well, the priest suggested I bring his body back to Texas. I said he wasn’t fit to be buried in Texas. Then Moses Albavera told me—”

  Albavera interrupted. “I said, ‘That’s just like you, a damned Texan. Savage isn’t fit to be buried in your damned state, but he’s good enough to be planted in Mexico in some town whose church he just blasted halfway to hell. You’re as bad as Savage.’ That’s what I told him, ma’am.”

  Chance looked rather sheepish. “Moses was right. We buried the captain in the cemetery at Fort Leaton. The soldiers looking for the captain, thinking he had declared independence from Texas, were still surrounding the fort. They had a couple doctors with them. We rested there a day. Then rode up here.”

  Boots scraped across the plank floor, spurs jingled, and Chance rose off the cot. He stood beside the tall Moor as two officers, a man with a sheriff’s badge, and a man in a plaid sack suit and bell crown hat stormed across the hospital floor. Weaving among the beds filled with sick soldiers—the post surgeon, a major named Hunter, said sick call had almost tripled since Grace Profit was admitted—they surrounded Grace, Albavera, and Chance.