West Texas Kill (26 page)

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Authors: Johnny D. Boggs

BOOK: West Texas Kill
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“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 seethed.
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.
Water splashed against the man's paling face, and his eyes fluttered open as he groaned. Reaching for his left arm, he found it wrapped tightly with a dirty rag torn from his shirt. The three men standing above him slowly came into focus. Beyond them stood the
puta
from Terlingua.
Don Melitón dropped the gourd ladle, and knelt beside the bandit. He spoke softly in Spanish. The Mexican, growing defiant, snapped a response.
The don cuffed him with his backhand. He asked the same question in the same tone.
The Mexican swallowed. He asked for water.
Don Melitón's head shook. He repeated the question.
That time, the Mexican answered.
“They left last night,” the don translated.
The Mexican spoke again, rapidly, fervently, until he was out of breath. His face became a mask of pain. Groaning, he reached over and tugged on his left shoulder, pulling up his knees, biting his bottom lip. He gasped out something else.
“He asks if I will carry his confession to his priest in San Pedro,” Don Melitón said.
“We don't have that much time,” Albavera said.
The don spoke again. The Mexican stared at him, lips trembling, tears streaming down his face, and he answered. Then began crossing himself, muttering a prayer, a confession. Whatever it was he was saying, he never finished, for Don Melitón drew the revolver he had retrieved from the dead bandit's back, thumbed back the hammer, and while Chance was reaching for the pistol, shouting, “No, damn it, no!” the gun roared, so close it burned the Mexican's face. The bullet tore through the man's nose and blew out the back of his skull.
“Damn it!” Chance swore, kicking a loose stone across the grounds. “Damn you all to hell, Don Melitón.”
Albavera hooked a thumb at Chance stomping back and forth. “In case you were wondering, old man, he wanted him alive.”
“This
pendejo
,” the don said tightly, “killed Miguel Aquiles and Romolo, the grandson of my sheepherder.” He shoved the revolver into his sash, his hands trembling, his eyes welling with tears. “Romolo was only thirteen years old. This
hijo de la puta
did not deserve to draw another breath for one second longer. He and his
amigo
”—Don spat in the direction of the dead fat man, still on the portal in a lake of drying blood—“came back here to ravage this woman”—he pointed at Linda—“and then kill her.”
“Why did they leave her alive?” Albavera asked.
“Captain Savage.”
The woman's voice startled the three men. They seemed to have remembered her presence only when she spoke.
“Lo Grande was going to kill me. Captain Savage said no. He wouldn't let him.” She sank to her knees, and began sobbing.
Chance slipped between the don and Albavera, knelt beside the crying prostitute, and put his arm around her shoulder. “That's all right, ma'am. Go ahead and cry. Let those tears run their course.”
She buried her head into his shoulder. He put his other arm around her back, pulled her close, and squeezed her tightly.
They had ignored her. Well, not ignored. They'd left her alone. It hadn't occurred to them, as frightened as she had appeared, so wrecked, so brutalized, to ask her anything. Until she had spoken.
“Was Grace here?” he asked.
“Yes,” was her choked reply.
“Where . . . ?” Chance couldn't finish.
“The captain took her.” She straightened, twisted her head, bit her lip, and sucked in a deep breath. When she exhaled, she said, “Captain Savage said he might need her. In case something went wrong.”
“They're going to rob the Southern Pacific?” Chance asked.
She nodded.
“Murphyville?”
“I'm not sure.”
Albavera cleared his throat. “Train's not due in Murphyville till Sunday. That—”
“That's not true.” She shook her head. “I heard them talking. Savage was talking to Grace. Lo Grande had me. We listened outside the door. Then we went inside.”
“The train's due Sunday, ma'am,” Chance said.
She shook her head again. “That's just what they wanted everybody to think. The train's due”—she swallowed—“Saturday.”
Today!
Chance fell back against the corral post. He brought his pointer finger to his mouth, considering what Linda Kincaid had just told him. He looked up at Albavera, then over to the don.
“No, now I remember.” Linda's head bobbed. “Captain Savage said he'd ride those rails all the way to Sanderson. He said that when we were listening, Lo Grande and me. They are going to Murphyville. I guess they'll take the eastbound to Sanderson.”
Chance reached over his head, gripped a pole, and pulled himself to his feet. “The schedule at Marathon said Sunday.” He looked at Albavera for confirmation.
The Moor nodded. “But a couple S.P. workers from Sanderson told me they were ordered to get that telegraph wire repaired by Saturday. Said it twice.” He tilted his head at Linda Kincaid. “I think she's right. Railroad brass, the law, they wanted everyone to think the train would be coming in a day later than it really is.”
“Or this is a special run.”
“Regular train comes through Sunday. Sure. That makes sense.”
“Savage will leave the train in Sanderson.”
Albavera was nodding. “I saw a bunch of freight wagons in town. Empty. Right by the railroad tracks.”
“But there is no town to speak of south of Sanderson,” Don Melitón spoke. “That is Coahuila. Lo Grande never goes that far east. He is a Chihuahua man.”

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