West Texas Kill (13 page)

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Authors: Johnny D. Boggs

BOOK: West Texas Kill
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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.”
“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.”
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?”

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