West Texas Kill (15 page)
Authors: Johnny D. Boggs
“Murphyville, most likely,” she said. “After the Rangers burned down my saloon, Savage told the railroaders they might as well head down the track to Murphyville to do their drinking. That was before they cut the wire. Savage also had one of those men send out a wire to the S.P. offices in Houston and El Paso saying the lines were down because of the weather, and that they'd likely be down for five days.”
Chance considered that. “Five days.”
“They could send a wire to El Paso from Murphyville,” Albavera said.
“They won't,” Grace said. “The captain paid them to keep quiet.”
“Five days,” Chance repeated.
“That's what the ladyâ” Albavera turned quickly, staring out the window. Chance heard the clopping of hooves then, and slowly drew the Smith & Wesson from behind his back. Keeping away from the window, he maneuvered his way to the wall, and stood across from Albavera. The rhythmic noise drew closer, then stopped.
Albavera looked out the window, turned to Chance. “One horse. No rider.”
The coal-oil lamp hanging from the wooden column cast dim yellow light on the weary brown gelding that stood in the street, head hanging down, a Cheyenne saddle hanging off-center on the right, both reins missing from the headstall.
Chance, Albavera, and Grace had come down the stairs, and through the back doorâthe same door Grace had sent Linda Kincaid through, to hide in the church, when Horatius had told them he thought Savage's Rangers were riding into Marathon. Albavera had volunteered to stay in Grace's room, but Chance wasn't about to leave him alone.
Hugging the side wall tightly, Chance brought the Winchester Centennial to his shoulder, and looked down the street to the west, then east. Not that he could see much, dark as it was. He waited. The horse snorted.
A minute passed . . . then five . . . then fifteen. Neither Grace nor Albavera ever sounded impatient, just stood behind him, waiting.
Finally, Chance decided he could wait till dawn, or check that brown horse now. So with a slight whispered curse, he stepped away from the wall, up the boardwalk, down the steps, and walked into the street, speaking softly to the gelding, stepping lightly, shooting quick glances up and down the darkened street. Albavera and Grace were a few steps behind him.
He shoved the stock of the Winchester under his arm, and pressed a hand against the horse's neck. Rubbing it in a counterclockwise motion, he tried to soothe the horse, though the way it looked and felt, it was too tired to run away.
“Easy, boy,” he said, and moved to the saddle. “Easy. You know me, boy. We'll take good care of you.”
He ran his hand down the saddle. The streets were dark, true, but the lanterns from the Iron Mountain Inn provided enough light for him to see the brown stains on the saddle. Dried, but still a bit tacky. Blood. A lot of it.
He looked over the horse's back, saw Grace and Albavera standing there.
“It's Ray Wickes's horse,” Chance said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What's that they say about Texas weather?” asked Albavera. “If you don't like it, stick around for a minute, and it'll change.”
“Texas weather.” Chance had taken off his mackinaw, and was tying it atop his bedroll behind the cantle of his saddle. “Arkansas weather. Kansas weather. Colorado weather. New Mexico weather. Every damned state says the same damned thing about the same damned weather.”
The weather had warmed considerably, probably pushing the mercury up to the sixty-degree mark, a far jump from the twenties and forties. Not hot, not as hellish as it would get in the summer, but that sun baked you like an oven. Even the wind felt warm. Chance finished securing his coat, and turned back. Removing his hat, he wiped the dust off his forehead, and stared south. A dust devil blew across the path about twenty yards away. The sky was pale and cloudless, the sun a white glare directly over their heads.
“Feels more like April than November,” Albavera said. “You take these bracelets off, I'll take off my coat, too.”
“Those bracelets stay on,” Chance said. “So does your coat.”
“But I'm hot. This buckskin is heavy, too.”
“I don't care.”
Albavera shook his head. “You've been in a grouchy mood since we left Marathon.”
Without a word, Chance nudged the gray stallion into a walk, putting his hat back on his head, wetting his cracked lips. Albavera rode alongside him, pulling Ray Wickes's brown horse behind him. They rode in silence, but only briefly, for Albavera found it difficult to keep his trap shut.
“I still don't know why we're riding south.”
“Told you.” Chance tilted his head toward the brown gelding. “That's the lieutenant's horse. Wickes might need help.”
“If Wickes needs anything, it's burying. You see all that blood on that saddle?”
“Then we'll bury him.”
“If we find him. That's a big if.” He shuddered. “This country gives me the creeps.”
Chance knew the feeling. Mountains rose in the distance, clouded by a haze caused by the wind-blown sand. There were no trees, just cactus, an occasion shrub, and mostly rocks and ridges. Albavera went right on talking.
“That wind will scar you with sand, blind you if you aren't careful. Rattlesnakes and scorpions will bite you. Plants will poke you, if not poison you. You'll be baking like bread in an oven one minute, then a blue norther will leave you covered with sleet, freezing your ass off. Even the water here will kill you if you're not careful.”
“Yep. It would make a good hell.”
“It is hell.” Albavera had to hold his hat on as a sudden gust of wind sprayed the man and horses with sand. He spit, and wiped his tongue on the sleeve of his duster.
“All right,” Chance said. “I have an excuse. The Rangers sent me out here. This is where I happen to work. I'm just following orders. But what brings you to this hell?”
“Well, on this particular morning, to this particular hell, you've brought me here, Ranger Chance. I still haven't figured out why.”
“Would you have preferred being left behind in Marathon? So when Don Melitón returned, he could hang you?”
“No. For one, I don't think that old codger would have hanged me. Shot me, sure. Maybe buried me up to my head near an ant bed, or staked me out in the sun. On the other hand, I'm not certain the don would come to Marathon. Your captain killed his two men, and the old man likely thinks they're still alive, waiting to see if we show up. Yeah, you could have left me in Marathon. I would have been safe. Only there isn't anything to drink in that town now. Thanks to your captain.”
No, Chance thought. Albavera was wrong. Secrets were hard to keep from Don Melitón. Hec Savage had made a mistake sending that railroad crew to Murphyville. Those men might not wire any explanation to the Southern Pacific offices in El Paso, but they'd definitely tell somebody in some Murphyville bucket of blood what had happened to those two vaqueros Savage's men had killed, and the don's men would have returned, likely in force. Instead of correcting Albavera, however, Chance said, “That wasn't my meaning. What brought you to this country?”
“Money.”
Chance nodded. They rode.
He didn't need to hear anymore, but Albavera made sure he did.
“First, I planned on betting on some boxing match they were having in El Paso. Then, I figured there was a bunch of hard-rock miners in Shafter worth visiting.”
“Instead you ran into Prince Benton.”
“Bad luck. You play enough cards, you learn. Sometimes luck's with you. Sometimes she's against you. I didn't take it personal.”
“Don Melitón did.”
“Well. I also figured this country could swallow you up. Be easy for a man to disappear.”
“A lot of people have.”
“Maybe your lieutenant.”
Chance shrugged. “Maybe. But you didn't. After you killed Prince Benton, you could have hidden out.” He pointed at the mountains off to the northwest. “There in the Del Nortes.” Pointed at the rises in the southeast. “Or there in the Tinajas.” Pointed directly south. “Or down in the Santiagos, the Chalk range, the Chisos. Hell, you could have swum the Rio Grande and hidden out in Mexico. Instead, you found a poker game in Fort Davis. Acted like you wanted to get caught.”
A grin stretched across Albavera's chiseled face. “Did I really act like I wanted to get caught, Ranger Chance? Seems to me you played hell getting these bracelets on me.”
Chance had to laugh at that. “Point taken,” he said.
The black man shook his head. “You misunderstood me, Sergeant. After I killed that bastard Prince Benton, I wasn't about to hide. You know as well as I do that nobody could hide from Don Melitón Benton. He'd come, and come to kill. I was waiting for him in Fort Davis. You just happened to get there first.”
“Why did you need country to hide out in?” Chance asked. “You were surprised when I arrested you for killing the Marin brothers. Seemed stunned to think anyone remembered those murders.”
“It was self-defense,” Albavera corrected.
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“Like I told you. You knew about the Marins. And Prince Benton. But there wasâ”
“Bill Carter.” Chance's head bobbed.
“That's right. You got a good memory, Ranger. Bill Carter. The one you didn't know aboutâwhich was self-defense, too.”
“Of course.” Chance's voice was placating.
The tone didn't appear to annoy Moses Albavera. “After I killed the Marin fools, I drifted. Piedras Negras. San Carlos. Spent some time in Mexico, then came back to Texas. Didn't stop, mind you. Just passing through. To Kansas. ColoradoâDenver, Leadville, Lake Cityâgambling. Betting on horses. Poker. Keno. Faro. Finally, I drifted back to Texas. Figured you Texans have short memories, and the Marin brothers would be long forgotten. Hit The Flat, Jacksboro, Fort Worth. Luck was running with me.
“Finally, I was told there was to be a big boxing match in El Paso, and I figured there was money to be had there, so I boarded a stagecoach in Jacksboro and headed for El Paso. Well, everything was going along just dandy till we got to Fort Stockton.”
“Stockton?”
“Yeah. You know that town?”
Involuntarily, Chance raised his right hand, ran his fingers around his throat. “Yeah,” he said in a dry whisper. “I know Fort Stockton.”
“A miserable blight in a miserable country. Alas, the stage had busted an axle, so I was stuck. Decided to pass my time at the Bad Springs Saloon.”
“Bad Water,” Chance corrected. “Bad Water Saloon.”
“Indeed, you're right, Ranger Chance. You do have a great memory. Well, I went inside, bellied up to the barâ how I love that term, bellied up to the bar.” Chuckling, he shook his head. “Then this woman comes up to me. I buy her a drink. She's a whore. I know that. Hell, everybody in the Bad Springs, I mean, Bad Water Saloon knew that. She didn't care if I was Moorish. I didn't care that she was white.”
“But somebody did.”
“You know Fort Stockton. You know how it was.”
“I can imagine.”
Albavera shook his head. “All we were doing was drinking what passes for whiskey in that groggery. I didn't touch her. Certainly didn't kiss her. We were just drinking, passing time, laughing at a joke now and then.”
“And Bill Carter took exception.”
“He damned near took my head off with a meat cleaver. If Loretta, that was the whore's name, hadn't screamed her head off, I wouldn't have my head now.”
“So you killed Bill Carter.”
“Had to. Shot him in the stomach with Miss Vickie, and he still came at me. I had to smash in his skull, and as soon as he hit the floor, Loretta was saying, âOh, my God, you've killed Bill Carter. You best light out of here.' She didn't have to tell me twice. I could see the Bad SpringsâWaterâSaloon was filled to the brim with friends of Bill Carter. But they looked struck dumb. One of them whispered, âI didn't think Bill Carter could get killed.' Another added, âSpecially by no darky.' I told them to keep their hands on the table and their feet on the floor, and kept them covered with Miss Vickie. Fools were too stupid to realize it's a single-shot rifle, and I hadn't reloaded. Backed through those batwing doorsâ”
“And stole this stallion.” Chance smiled at Albavera.
“You don't miss much, Ranger Chance.”
“I'm alive.”
“Well, I never made it to El Paso. Decided I might hide out in this Big Bend Country, and I did for a while. But this country . . .” Shuddering, he shook his head. “I'm not a man who enjoys solitude. I need people. I need noise. The sound of chips on a felt cloth. The shuffling of paste-cards. The clinking of glasses. The laughter of whores. I figured I might as well try my luck in Shafter.”
“Where you killed Prince Benton. You seem to run into a lot of trouble in saloons, Moses. You might want to stay out of those places.”
“That I can't do, Ranger Chance. Those saloons, those gambling parlors, they're like a home to me. Besides, a lovely little whore in Shafterâblack lady, me figuring people wouldn't get riled at me for talking and drinking with herâtold me that I didn't have to worry about being posted for killing Bill Carter, not if he got killed in Fort Stockton.”
“There's some truth to that. Fort Stockton'sâ”
Chance stopped the Andalusian. Albavera reined up the sorrel and followed Chance's gaze southeast. At first, he saw nothing, but then found about six or seven birds circling overhead. They seemed to have silver wings, but both men knew those birds were really black or brown.
“Like I said, your lieutenant doesn't need help. He needs burying.”
“Let's find out.” Chance's spurs raked the stallion's side, and the gray took off in an easy lope across the desert floor.
A huge turkey buzzard, better than two and a half feet long, lifted its red, featherless head, which seemed so tiny compared to the rest of the bird's body. A piece of gut hung from the hooked ivory beak, before the bird shook its head, swallowed the entrails, and, staring at the two riders, hissed. Other carrion kept right on feeding, waddling around, occasionally looking up, grunting.
Sounding like pigs, not birds.
They were hideous creatures in a horrible scene. Gray, dead eyes. Pale legs, clawed feet, red heads, dark feathers. Feasting on what once had been a man.
Catching the odor of blood and death, the horses danced nervously. The buzzards showed no fear.
The Andalusian turned in a circle as Chance drew the Schofield and fired once, twice, three times, the reports echoing, sending the birds noisily flapping into the sky. Few traveled more than twenty yards before lighting on the boulders, waiting for the riders to leave them to their find.
After holstering the Schofield, Chance swung from the saddle, drew the Winchester from the scabbard, and handed the reins to Albavera.
“Wait here,” he said.
“That's what I planned on doing,” Albavera said.
“If you try to ride off, I'll kill you.”
“If I go anywhere”âAlbavera looked awayâ“it'll be to that bush yonder. To throw up.” He covered his mouth. The gunman looked sick.
Chance took a few steps, stopped, spit, and pulled his bandana over his mouth and nose. His eyes watered. Bile rose from his stomach, but he kept it down. He made it ten more feet, then leaned the Winchester against a rock. He lifted the bandana just enough to spit, almost spraying a boulder with vomit, but somehow managed to hold everything together.
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