West Texas Kill (9 page)

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Authors: Johnny D. Boggs

BOOK: West Texas Kill
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“What's that, honey?” Grace asked.
She shut her eyes, and began shivering. “Can't go to Houston. Captain Savage will kill my mother.”
That Ranger had been right. The woman's mind was gone.
“Captain Savage wouldn't do that. He's a Ranger.”
“He killed those men.”
Grace nodded. “Yes, I'm sure he did. He killed Lo Grande's men to save you.”
“Not them. Them!” Her chin pointed toward the window.
Grace considered that a moment, unsure. Then, she asked, “Those two Rangers? In the buckboard?”
“Killed them in San Pedro. Killed one of them, at least. Another Ranger killed the other one. In a cantina there. Down in Mexico. Told me if I ever told anyone what he had done, he'd kill me.” Her eyes opened. Her stare sent a chill racing down Grace's spine. “I guess . . . now . . . he'll kill you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The two men hid behind a fortress of reddish black lava rocks, the boulders high enough to shield their horses from anyone who happened through the tight little cañon. Moses Albavera squatted in front of a small fire, a skillet in his manacled hands, while Dave Chance rubbed down the unsaddled horses. A coffee can sat on a flat rock over the coals. Chance had gathered dried wood that wouldn't smoke. He made Albavera do the cooking.
Albavera asked, “You think we're clear of that old don?”
“Nope,” the Ranger answered.
The Ranger didn't talk much—unlike Albavera, who loved to gab. They probably hadn't spoken a dozen words since they'd loped out of Fort Davis. Albavera didn't even know the Ranger's name. He looked to be in his thirties, same as Albavera, with dirty, sand-colored hair that touched his shoulders, a weather-tanned face covered with at least a week's stubble of beard, broad shoulders, and narrow hips. His hazel eyes didn't miss much. He had long fingers meant to play a piano, perhaps, or work a rifle or short gun.
Marathon lay about sixty miles southeast of Fort Davis. The Andalusian and the sorrel could have covered that distance in a day, though the horses wouldn't be worth spit for three or four days, maybe never, after such a hard run. Or they could have made forty miles, gotten an early start the next morning, and loped into the cattle-and sheep-shipping point by noon. Twenty miles would have been easy.
Instead, they had covered, maybe, twelve.
Albavera had expected them to ride hard that day, put as much distance as they could between them and Don Melitón Benton and his vaqueros, but the long-haired Ranger had been cautious. He hadn't put the horses in anything faster than a canter, and those lopes had lasted only a few minutes. Some bone-jarring trots lasted a little longer when they had to cross the plains. Yet even when they traveled through open country, the Ranger played it safe, never kicking up too much dust, staying close to the growths of cactus, or dipping into the ravines and arroyos.
Mostly, they had kept their horses at a walk over rough country, the iron shoes of their mounts clopping on hard rock, through narrow canyons, around the sides of mesas, bouncing in a zigzag pattern from mesa to ridge, arroyo to canyon. The Ranger never allowed himself or Albavera to skyline, never allowed Albavera to get too close to him. When they reached a high point, the Ranger rested the horses while surveying their back trail.
Smart gent, that Ranger. Staying out of view, making it tougher for Don Melitón to track them by riding over hard rocks, keeping Albavera at a distance.
Hell, Albavera begrudgingly admired the man. He'd hate to have to kill him, yet he knew killing the Ranger was his only chance of staying alive.
“Way I see it, old Benton, when he realizes he can't really track us, he'll have to send some of his men toward El Paso. Just in case you weren't lying to him. Then he'll think about Murphyville, and point some of his men in that direction, it being the closest S.P. stop. But he'll also think you might have hauled my ass off to Fort Stockton to get some help from the Army there. He owns the C.O. at Fort Davis, so he'll have to consider it. Maybe he'll think—having seen my Andalusian and your sorrel—with horseflesh like that, maybe we'd just take the San Antonio–El Paso road. Some of those vaqueros would have to lope down that pike. And finally, he'd have to think about Marathon. So he'd order a few riders there. All of them under orders to send a galloper back for the others as soon as they found us.”
The Ranger said, “What makes you think he can't track us?”
With a chuckle, Albavera turned his attention to the supper he was frying. He tilted the cast iron skillet, letting the pieces of salt pork slide in their grease. “I ever tell you what happened betwixt me and the Marin brothers?”
“I don't care.” Chance moved from the sorrel to the Andalusian.
“Joe Marin, he was the youngest, was working a crooked faro layout at the Gulf Saloon,” Albavera said, pleased for the chance to talk. “I saw how crooked the game was, him milking this mate from a sloop that had sailed into the port, and coppered a bet. You know how easy it is to cheat at faro, don't you?”
Chance didn't answer.
“Marin saw what I was doing. Didn't like it a whit, but he was either going to have to pay me five hundred dollars, or pay the mate seven-fifty. You're smart enough, even for a Ranger, to see what he did.”
Chance didn't appear to be interested, but Albavera kept right on talking.
“So I took my winnings, headed for the bar, and ran into Chet Marin, who was a beer-jerker at the Gulf. Chet had seen what I had done, and he didn't like it any better than Joe had. I asked for a glass of wine, and he said, ‘Why don't you take your ass somewhere else?'
“Well, this being Texas, I looked at the flies gathered around the bar, and realized I wasn't likely to get a glass of wine, and it would probably be in my best interest to take my Moorish ass somewhere else. So I did. Planned to, anyhow.”
Chance moved to the other side of the Andalusian.
“But not before I went back to the faro layout and told the mate how he was being cheated. Joe Marin was using ‘sand-tell' cards and a screw box. You know faro, I take it. Easiest game in the world for a dealer to cheat at.”
“Dealers aren't the only ones who cheat,” Chance said.
Albavera smiled. Apparently, the Ranger was listening. He also had an easy way with horses. That Andalusian didn't let just anybody get close to him. Albavera had been surprised—well, disappointed, actually—that the stallion had not bucked the Ranger off.
“That's true,” Albavera said.”Very true. Not that I've ever cheated as a dealer or player, mind you. But Joe Marin, he had no qualms, and he was pretty good at it. You got to have an easy touch to work a screw box, have a feel for those cards. I'll give Joe Marin that much. He was a really good cheat, maybe the best I've ever caught, and I bet that screw box of his, silver plated and engraved, likely cost him five hundred dollars. 'Course, he likely made back that money and then some after a couple days in a place like the Gulf. All he had to do was press a little button with his left finger, and it would widen or narrow the slot from which he was skinning cards. Narrow slit would give him one card, wide slit would let him pull two as one. He had sanded the faces on the high cards, the backs on the low cards. Easy as pie. I showed the mate that. Joe turned mighty pale. Well, it turned out that mate had half his crew from the sloop in the Gulf Saloon. The fight was just commencing when I left.” He slid the skillet back, and looked at Chance.”How am I supposed to turn this pork over without a knife or a fork?”
“Use your fingers.”
“I might burn them.”
“You have gloves.”
“A fork would be easier.”
“You're not getting a fork, Albavera.”
His black head shook. He reached into the back pocket of his pants to fish out a pair of deerskin gloves, blackened from use. “Well, don't blame me if your salt pork's burned to a crisp.”
“Charcoal's good for your teeth.”
Albavera sniggered. “Where was I?”
“I don't care.”
“Oh, yeah. I was leaving the Gulf Saloon. Chet Marin came out through the doors, grabbed my shoulder, and jerked me around. I put my fist through his face, and he went flying through the doors, back toward the melee. That's a good French word, melee. Comes from Latin. I bet you didn't know that, did you, Ranger?”
“I don't care.”
Albavera flipped the meat over, the grease staining the tips of his gloves, and burning his fingertips anyway. “Chet came out again, swinging an Arkansas toothpick at my gut that he'd pulled from his boot. It was a pretty good fight for a while. He ripped open my vest and shirtfront, cut me good across the stomach. Little deeper and I wouldn't be your chef this evening. Then he charged me. I grabbed his hand, twisted that knife, pushed him against the wall of the saloon, and stuck that blade into his brisket.” Shaking his head, Albavera chuckled. “You should have seen the look on his face as that son of a bitch soiled his britches and dropped onto the boardwalk in a lake of his own blood.
“Well, I was bleeding a mite myself. Had to lean against the wood column for support, trying to catch my breath. Then Joe Marin comes through those batwing doors, sees his brother lying there, palms a pepperbox pistol, calls me a filthy name, takes a shot. Mind you, my back was to Joe. He could have killed me. Probably would have if that mate hadn't busted him up mighty fine. I was lucky. Sort of.
“Now, here's the deal with Galveston. It's civilized. Men can't go in the city limits armed with revolvers. I didn't own Miss Vickie back then, just had an old cap-and-ball Remington, and I'd left it at the constable's office, being a man who respected and obeyed the law. I read an account a while later in the
Galveston Daily News
I happened to get, after they'd indicted me on two counts of murder. They say I shot first. How could I? I didn't have a gun. That's not how it happened.”
The grease was popping, the salt pork making Albavera's mouth water. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. The Ranger had left the horses, and stood a few rods from the fire, staring at Albavera, waiting for him to finish his story.
“His first shot grazed my left arm, and I was on him. We got into a struggle, and I did young Joe pretty much the same way I'd done Chet, only he got a bullet in his gut, instead of a knife. Joe made a deathbed statement that I'd murdered him and his brother both, the liar. I read that in the
Daily News
, too, but I tell you it was self-defense. I left them both dying on the boardwalk, grabbed the first horse I could find, and lit a shuck.”
He slid the salt pork around some more. “Now, Ranger, doesn't that sound like self-defense to you?”
“Why'd you run?”
“In Galveston? You think I'd stand a chance killing two white men? I've never shot down anyone in cold blood. The Marin brothers. Bill Carter. You don't know about him, but it was either me or him, too. Prince Benton. Everyone I've ever killed I had to kill. You believe me?”
“I don't care.”
Albavera shook his head. “You're a hard man, Ranger. What's your name, anyhow? I know it ain't polite, asking a man his name, but, well, what would you expect from a heartless murderer such as I?”
“Chance. David Marion Chance, sergeant, Company E, Texas Rangers. Dave for short.”
“Well, Chance, you better come get this salt pork before it's burned to a crisp.”
Chance smiled, stepped toward the fire, pointing at the coffeepot on the rock. “Want me to open that can of milk—”
He never finished the question. Grinning, eyes fixed on the fire, Moses Albavera had struck out as fast as a rattlesnake. Lifting the skillet in his right hand, he flipped the salt pork, but mostly the ton of hot grease the meat had produced, at Chance's face.
Chance stepped back and to his left quickly, bringing his left forearm up to protect his face and eyes as he turned his head. Most of the grease caught his arm and vest, although a piece of hot pork slapped the side of his face. He whirled, trying to clear the Schofield's long barrel from the holster.
Albavera leaped over the fire, manacles clinking as he slashed the skillet, cutting through the air.
Chance stumbled, and went down. That likely saved his life. The blackened frying pan weighed close to eight pounds. Had it connected with his face, it would have crushed his skull.
The skillet swooshed over his head, clipping the crown of his hat. The momentum of the swing sent Albavera spinning, and he tripped over a rock. The skillet slipped from his grip, crashing against the lava boulder.
The horses snorted, and stomped their hoofs.
Chance rolled over, freeing the Schofield from the holster with his right hand. He was thumbing back the hammer when Albavera leaped onto him, pinning the Ranger's hand in the sand with his knee. Albavera, his face an ugly grimace, leaned forward, bringing the chains that held his wrists against Chance's throat. He pressed down with all his might.
His right hand pinned, the Smith & Wesson behind his back, impossible to reach, Chance shot his left hand forward, past the chain, and went right to Albavera's throat. He locked tight, and squeezed.
Their eyes met, locked, masked in determination.
It seemed just a matter of who'd slip into unconsciousness first.

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