West Texas Kill (29 page)
Authors: Johnny D. Boggs
McGee leaned his head out the window, came back in, pushed the throttle, and held his breath.
“You hear something?” Albavera leaned out the locomotive.
Chance could barely hear the words over the roar of the engine. Albavera pulled himself back inside, rubbed his eyes. Both men heard the noise then, and McGee peered out the window. Chance set the pieces of wood on the floor, put his hand on the butt of the Schofield. McGee's hand pulled back on the throttle, and the train began to slow. He looked at his two helpers, and said, “Iffen I was you two, I'd disembark this locomotive right about now.”
“You haven't stopped it yet,” Albavera protested.
“This train don't stop. In fact, it's about to speed up.”
McGee's eyes convinced Chance. As the train slowed, he leaned out the cabin, and launched himself into the air.
He landed on his moccasined feet, tumbling violently, uncontrollably over cactus, stones, and through one creosote bush. He heard the roar of the passing boxcar, and prayed his momentum wouldn't carry him back up the embankment, onto the rails, and under the wheels. Then the train was gone, and all Dave Chance could hear was the pounding in his head, and several yards away, the curses of Moses Albavera.
Spitting out sand and blood, Chance pulled himself to his feet. His left arm was broken between his wrist and elbow. He grabbed his hat, snagged on that creosote bush, and slammed it on his head. Blood seeped from his split lips, from his busted nose, down both arms. He pulled the Schofield from its holster, blew the dust off it, making sure it would still cock. He dropped it back into the holster, and reached for the Smith & Wesson .32, but it was gone. He looked down along the rails, but couldn't find it. By then he was standing over Albavera, who was sitting up, shaking his head, testing the sawed-off Springfield.
Chance extended his hand. Albavera took it, letting the Ranger pull him to his feet.
“You look like crap,” Albavera said, wiping blood off his forehead.
“You're no Mona Lisa.” Chance grimaced as pain shot up his left arm, which dangled uselessly at his side.
“What's the matter with your arm?”
“Broken.”
“Wonder we didn't both break our necks.” He shoved the Springfield into the holster. They took three steps, and stopped.
Black smoke belched out of the Schenectady locomotive as it sped down the tracks. Beyond that, another black 4-4-0 engine began screaming, whistle blaring, brakes sounding. About fifty yards from the tracks, Don Melitón's vaqueros reined in their horses.
The engine driven by Mickey McGee picked up more speed as he opened the throttle. As the other train tried to stop, men leaped from the top of the tender, out of the cab, and from one of the boxcars. At the last moment, Mickey McGee hurled himself out of the Schenectady engine.
“Christ Jesus Almighty,” Dave Chance said, and closed his eyes. Doubt seized his mind.
What if I'm wrong? What if Savage and Lo Grande didn't rob that train? What . . . then?
What if I'm wrong? What if Savage and Lo Grande didn't rob that train? What . . . then?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The American Standard had slowed to a crawl when the Schenectady, going wide open, slammed into it with a crushing, earsplitting impact that lifted the Standard's rear wheels off the track, and sent the cattle car pulled by the Schenectady flipping over violently on the northern side of the tracks, the tender toppling over to the side. The Standard's drive wheels landed, and the engine fell on its side on the southern side of the track.
Tom O'Brien, the Ranger who had dived off the top of the tender before the trains collided, was trying to drag himself away. He turned, raising both hands as the 4-4-0 toppled on him, silencing his screams.
The first boxcar rammed into the tender, slamming it off the tracks on the northern side. Smashed and splintered, it fell on top of the tender. The second car also lurched to the northern side, rolling over on its top, side, top, before landing near the cattle car from the westbound train. The final boxcar cartwheeled over the wreckage of the Schenectady, collapsing the roof on impact. The caboose spun off to the southern side, flipped twice, coming to a rest on its wheels, which sank deep into the sand. Almost immediately, smoke poured from the open back door, then flames consumed the rear of the caboose. Flames also shot out from the wreckage of the second boxcar. Dust and smoke quickly obscured the scene.
It had happened in only seconds.
Then the boiler of the Schenectady exploded.
The eruption rocked the desert valley, sending chunks of metal and wood through the air like grapeshot. Two Rangers stumbling from the wreckage were cut down, a spray of pink mist marking their demise. On the southern side of the tracks, Don Melitón's vaqueros tried to control their horses. One mount fell dead, killed by a piece of metal that had penetrated its brain, pinning its rider under its dead weight. Another horse sent its rider sailing over his head, and took off in a gallop south, away from the carnage.
The explosion from the boiler knocked Chance off his feet. He staggered upright, holding his left arm, biting back pain. Ahead of him ran Moses Albavera, the Springfield in his hands. Chance cried out, and took a few steps, not knowing how much more he could endure, how much farther he could go. He pushed himself, then tripped. His legs refused to run. He careened along the sides of the tracks, chest heaving, arm throbbing, head pounding, ears ringing. Again he spit out blood, caught the scent of smoke, of death, and stopped beside a body lying a few rods from the rails.
Kneeling, Chance rested his right arm on Mickey McGee's shoulder. The Irishman's eyes fluttered open. “Hey, Davy. We stop 'em?”
“Yeah.” He looked at McGee's legs, tucked underneath him at an ungodly angle.
“Them was the Constantine boys, wasn't they?” Blood seeped from the corners of the railroader's mouth, out of his nose, and ears.
The Constantines? That was a long time ago.
“Yeah.” Chance squeezed the shoulder. McGee didn't respond. Probably couldn't feel anything.
“Yeah.” Chance squeezed the shoulder. McGee didn't respond. Probably couldn't feel anything.
“I got Robert good, didn't I? Was Robert I got, wasn't it?”
“It was.” Chance smiled weakly. “You stoved in his head with that sledgehammer.”
“Better than drivin' spikes.” McGee tried to grin, but coughed up a bloody froth. “Saved your life, didn't I?”
Chance nodded, pushed himself to his feet, and looked down the track at the bedlam.
“I bet the T&P'll give us all medals. I got Robert. You gunned down Will. Hell, I didn't even know you was packin' iron, Davy. Never seen you shoot a revolver before.”
“Mickey,” he said, not daring to look back at his friend's wrecked body. “I've got to go.”
“I know, pard. You go on. You get Greg Constantine. Get him for me. I'll just rest . . . shut my eyes . . . for a wee bit.”
Chance moved away, drawing the Schofield, coming to the hissing, creaking, steaming overturned American Standard engine. He looked across the tracks. Flames had enveloped the Southern Pacific car, had spread to the ruins of the nearby cattle car that the Schenectady had been pulling. Above the smell of grease, of oil, came the stench of burning flesh from inside that boxcar. Again, Chance closed his eyes.
The report of a pistol snapped him back to his senses.
Pushing himself away from the wrecked engine, he saw the surviving Rangers running toward Don Melitón's men, firing, charging. Up ahead, Moses Albavera had dropped into a prone position, fired the sawed-off Springfield, and rolled onto his back, trying to feed another shell into the breech.
Chance shook his head. He staggered on, fell to his knees, and looked at the other cars. “Damn you, Mickey. You didn't tell me you planned on ramming that train. Derailing it might have injured some people, but not like this.
“Grace!” he called out.
Down the way a horseman stopped, slashed out with a large Bowie knife at a Ranger, but the horse stepped in a hole, and down went horse and rider. The Ranger, wearing a cap, not a hat, leaped over. They disappeared in the dust. When the horse stood up, and the dust had settled, it was Doc Shaw leaning low in the saddle, furiously whipping the horse with his Sharps, galloping south.
Shaw was getting away, but where was Hec Savage? In which car?
Chance looked back at the mass of metal that had been a 4-4-0. He had seen two men leap from the engine before the collision. Captain Savage wouldn't have been there. That was too far from the gold. He looked at the smoke rising from one of the cars. Remembered the smell of burning flesh. Choked down bile.
The first car? The one lying on the other side of the tracks, by the tender? Maybe. He looked at the final car, crushed into kindling. Saw the smoke from the caboose. Saw the door shudder two times, three, then kick open.
Maybe Savage is dead? No, not that son of a bitch.
Vaqueros thundered across the rails from the northern side of the tracks. The last one reined in beside the caboose, and fired a round from the Spencer. Smoke and flame belched from the doorway, and the rider slid from the saddle. The horse turned, started to run, but stayed, held by the reins wrapped around the dead vaquero's wrists.
Suddenly, Chance's vision blurred. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and let his eyes open again. The flaming caboose was spinning, faster, faster, faster.
Chance looked at the pistol he held. He saw three Schofields, three hands, and then they, too, went blurry, and started spinning. He tried another tentative step, felt the Schofield slipping from his fingers, and crashed, falling hard, the warm sand rushing up to meet him.
Some woman was screaming. Grace wanted to tell whoever it was to shut the hell up. She opened her eyes, coughed from the thick smoke that stung her eyes, burned her lungs, her throat, and realized that those screams were coming from herself.
Determinedly, she made her mouth close, and the screaming stopped. She heard the crackling of wood, then a terrific explosion. The earth moved beneath her and she fell backwards. She pulled herself up, and fell immediately back onto the floor, her ankles burning with intense pain. Something trickled down her cheek, and she smelled, then tasted, blood.
Lifting her head, she tried to remember where she was.
The caboose. The train.
The caboose. The train.
She remembered.
Feeling the pain in her ankles again, she began swatting the smoldering hem of her skirt. At first, she thought they were on fire, but no. She reached up, found something to gripâthe edge of the deskâand pulled herself up to her knees. Heat began to sear the side of her face, and she could smell the sickening stench of burning hair. She crawled across the floor, strewn with debris, away from the fire.
Suddenly, she realized something else, and desperation gripped her. If she didn't get out of that damned car, she'd be burned alive. She tried to stand, but the pain in her ankles shot up her legs, and she almost fainted. She dragged herself farther away from the thick smoke, the intense flames. Something stopped her. Turning, she saw the smashed face of the Ranger, Scheidner, his eyes open, only no longer seeing. She wouldn't have recognized him if not for the stethoscope hanging from his neck.
She choked back a cry, made herself crawl over his dead body, and touched something else, cold and hard.
The heavy bar of gold, the reflection of the flames shimmering.
Above her, fire swept across the ceiling. She made herself move faster, until she had backed into the wall. Turning, she saw the door, and she slid toward it. Reaching up, she gripped the knob, hot from the heat of the fire. The knob turned, and she pushed with her back against the door. It didn't budge. She bit her lip, sucked in fiery air that burned her lungs and made her cough. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pushed on the door again, harder, feeling the searing heat from the flames, choking on the smoke.
That woman started screaming again.
Something smashed her hand, and she let go of the knob, hearing a man curse. She opened her eyes, but could see little from the smoke. A hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up. The door flew open. Something popped. A gun. A revolver detonated close to her ear, leaving her momentarily deaf. The grip on her shoulder was released, and she fell onto the platform, sucking in cool, fresh air as she tried to pull her legs out of the burning caboose.
She thought she heard spurs singing out, heading back into the coach, then returning. Rough hands lifted her, and shoved her down the steps. She fell onto the dirt, and let out a loud yelp. Rolling over, clawing, pulling herself away from the burning caboose, she saw the hooves of a horse. A Mexican lying nearby was facedown, the reins wrapped around his wrist.
Boots thudded beside her. She heard another shot, smelled gunpowder. A horse raced by her, and she saw a rider, his boot caught in one stirrup, dragged through the creosote and prickly pear.
Suddenly, Grace felt herself being lifted.
“Come on!” a voice rang out, but she could barely make out the words. She looked, blinked, and realized she was being held by Captain Hec Savage. His nose was a bloody pulp, and a wicked gash creased his forehead.
Her head shook.
“Move!” She heard clearly him that time.
“I . . . can't.” Biting back tears, she cried, “My . . . legs!”
“Damn.” He grabbed her, and half dragged her to the horse.
“Hold it!” That wasn't Savage. Somebody else's voice sounded like it was coming from the deepest well.
A gun roared underneath Grace's arm. A groan followed, then a gasp, and a horse's whinny. The sound of something crashing to the ground was followed by the pounding of hooves.
She smelled the stink of leather and sweat.
“Get on!” Savage commanded.
“I can't,” Grace wailed.
Savage cursed again. Holding her upright, he swung into the saddle. He reached down, pulled Grace up, throwing her arms and head over to the side, her stomach pressed between the saddle horn and the horse's neck. A rough hand slammed into her back, and stayed there. The gun roared again, then she felt herself bouncing around like a sack of grain, her head smashing against the horse. She smelled dust, vomited.
That woman wasn't screaming anymore. She was cussing like a railroader.
Moses Albavera ran, holding the Springfield with both hands. He watched a Ranger ahead of him drop to his knee, bring up a Colt, saw the flash from the muzzle, and felt a bullet zip past his ear. Barely aiming, Albavera pointed the sawed-off rifle, and fired. The Ranger jerked, and fell hard on his back. As Albavera ran past him, he glanced at the dead man, recognizing him from Marathon. He had been one of those guys with Savage. What was the name? Newton. That's right. Newton.
Worthless bastard.
Not even slowing his pace, Albavera pushed out a bullet from the shell belt, and worked open the breech.
Riders came barreling across the flats from the west, from Murphyville.
Albavera slid to a stop. He wet his lips. “Who in the hell . . . ?”
He realized the answer before he had finished asking the question. Quickly, he came to his feet, signaling at Don Melitón's vaqueros, waving the Springfield in the direction of the approaching riders. “Lo Grande! Lo Grande!” he yelled, pointing at the men.
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