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Authors: Johnny D. Boggs

West Texas Kill (19 page)

BOOK: West Texas Kill
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“ ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women cloy
The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies.'”
He smiled again, his eyes lecherous. “
Buenas tardes, señorita. Yo soy Juan Lo Grande. El gusto es mío.
”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fifteen miles from Sanderson, the brown gelding collapsed. Kicking free of the stirrups, Moses Albavera managed to leap clear, hitting the ground hard, somersaulting, and landing on his buttocks. He caught his breath, found his hat, and stumbled over to the dying horse.
“That's all right, fella,” he said, stroking the lathered head. “You done fine. Just fine.” Hell, he had expected the horse to die five miles back.
Slowly, he drew the Smith & Wesson .32 from his coat pocket, and pressed the muzzle against the horse's head. With a heavy sigh, he pulled the gun back, broke open the barrel, and looked at the cylinder. Four rounds. That brilliant Sergeant Chance apparently felt the need to keep the chamber under the hammer empty. He hadn't thought to give Albavera any extra ammunition, either.
The horse snorted, as if begging for a bullet.
“I don't want you to suffer, boy,” Albavera said as he snapped the barrel back in place. “But I might need that bullet.” After returning the .32 to his pocket, he slid back, and unfastened the saddlebag. Telegrams, mostly. A book. A couple of blank warrants. A tin cup, plate, and spoon.
Grunting, exhausted, he tugged until he had pried the other bag from underneath the dying horse, dragged it over, and unfastened the flap. Inside, he found a pair of socks, an extra shirt, and a pouch containing a couple of Ranger badges. Likely belonging to those two dead guys Savage had sent east for burial. Wickes must have forgotten about those. He looked at the badges cut from pesos, and, bemused, pinned one on his vest before continuing his search. Another pair of socks, desperately needing darning. Finally, wrapped inside a silk bandana, he discovered a sheathed knife.
And a flask. He unscrewed it, sniffed, smiled, and dropped it into the other pocket of his coat. “You were a good man, Lieutenant Wickes.”
Albavera unsheathed the knife, and ran his thumb gently across the sharp blade. “
Adiós, caballo
,” he said, and brought the knife to the brown's throat.
The sun low behind him, Albavera stumbled, dropping the saddle and bridle he carried. He tilted his head forward, sucking in air. He tugged the saddlebags he had draped over his shoulder, and let them collapse on the road. Chest heaving, he drew the flask from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and polished off the last of the Scotch.
He had no idea how far he had traveled since slitting the brown's throat, but knew Sanderson wasn't that much closer. Lugging along a forty-pound saddle, he wasn't covering much ground, but he might need that saddle.
Albavera chased down the whiskey with a slug of water from the canteen, ran his tongue over his cracked lips, and stared down a road that led to nowhere, forever. He let out a weary sigh.
That's when he heard the noise.
A low rolling sound, metallic, with a steady squeaking. He couldn't place the noise, but it was coming closer. Climbing to his feet, leaving the saddle and bags in the road, he stared off into the distance, letting his gaze move north of the road, to the railroad tracks. Through a pass in the buttes, he saw something.
Albavera blinked. Swallowed. Squinted his eyes.
“Hell,” he said, and hurried back, grabbing the saddle, bridle, and saddlebags. He dragged them off the road, over creosote, as he climbed the embankment to the edge of the railroad tracks. He dropped the tack at his feet, whipped off his hat, and began waving it over his head.
“Hey!” His voice was barely audible. He tried again. “Hey!”
Two men worked the hand pump on a railroad handcart. The one facing Albavera, a burly man in a bowler, let go of the pump, and pointed. The man with his back to Albavera slowly turned, and tipped back his slouch hat. Briefly, the men stared as the cart rolled down the tracks. Bowler said something, and Slouch Hat turned back. They furiously worked the pump, increasing speed.
“Stop!” Albavera yelled.
They pumped harder.
“Dumb bastards.” Albavera tossed the saddle, bags and bridle onto the track, and drew the .32.
Bowler let go of the pump and bent over, reaching for a rifle on the cart floor.
With his left hand, Albavera tugged on his vest, showing off the peso badge. “Stop, you damned fools. I'm a Texas Ranger.”
The man lifted the rifle.
Albavera put a bullet in the stock. Bowler's rifle went flying off one side of the cart. He yelped and fell off the other.
Slouch Hat turned, and lifted his hands. He stood there, eyes wide, with his hands held high.
“The brake, you idiot! Stop that damned cart!”
The man knelt, reached to the side, pulled up the arm, and the cart began grinding to a halt, coming to a stop about ten feet in front of the saddle.
“What the hell's the matter with you?” Albavera said. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the saddle and tack, and heaved them onto the front of the cart. Stepping aside he watched Bowler walking down the tracks, rubbing his left shoulder, the knees of his duck trousers torn.
“You all right?”
Bowler answered with a lame nod. “We thought you was gonna rob us.”
“Do I look like Jesse James?” Albavera climbed onto the cart. “Does this look like a Rock Island express?”
“Well, you don't look like no Texas Ranger we ever seen, neither.”
Albavera grinned. “Where y'all headed?”
“Wire's down somewhere near Marathon. We was going to fix it.”
“Work for the Southern Pacific?”
“Uh-huh.”
Bowler leaned against the side of the cart, still rubbing his shoulder. “Fellas sent a wire saying the bloody line was down because of the weather. But there ain't been no weather, least not in Sanderson, and it shouldn't take no five days to put that wire back up.”
Nodding at Bowler's comment, Slouch Hat added, “The superintendent sent us. Told us, ‘Make damned sure that wire is up before Saturday.'”
“Something big's coming on the eastbound,” Bowler said. “So we need to be on our way.”
Albavera looked at the box of tools on the cart's floor. “That'll have to wait. I need you to get me back to Sanderson.”
“But—” Slouch Hat began.
“No buts.” Albavera tapped the badge, enjoying himself. “I'm the law.”
The method of transportation befitted a man of Moses Albavera's stature. Not riding a horse to death. Not carrying a heavy saddle across a desolate patch of nothingness. But sitting on the back of a cart, smoking a cigar, letting a couple Irishmen do all the work. Even the squeaking of that hand pump sounded musical to Albavera's ears.
They'd be in Sanderson shortly after dark. At least, that was Bowler's prediction. Albavera could send his telegraph then.
“Many saloons in Sanderson?” Albavera asked.
“Six,” Slouch Hat answered with a grunt.
“Gambling?”
“In every saloon.”
“But you gotta tell our super that you made us come back. He'll be madder than a hornet.”
“I'll tell him.” He pitched the cigar onto the tracks, and leaned back, careful to avoid the hand pump. He looked up at Bowler. “You said something big was coming on the eastbound.”
Bowler brought the pump down, then up. “Yeah.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Just what we hear. They don't tell us much.”
Added Slouch Hat, “But O'Rourke, he's our superintendent, he said make sure we had that downed line fixed before Saturday.”
Albavera ran his hand across his mouth, then remembered the telegraphs inside the saddlebags. He opened one, saw the socks, realized it was the wrong bag. Opening the other, he pulled out one telegraph and scanned it. Just orders not to pursue Juan Lo Grande across the border. He found another.
CAPT SAVAGE STOP REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO ME STOP COL THOMAS
He tossed it into the desert and found another. He had to read it again. Whistling, he folded the yellow paper, and tucked it inside his vest pocket. Slouch Hat was grunting, panting. Albavera brought his feet up, and rose, feeling the cooling air against his face.
“You're worn to a frazzle, mister,” Albavera told Slouch Hat. “Let me spell you. We need to get to Sanderson fast.”
Night enveloped them long before they crossed the bridge over the dry creek, and came into town. Sanderson, née Strawbridge, had been established when the Texas and New Orleans Railroad reached the site a few years earlier. Six well-lighted saloons, and several less busy, less lit buildings dotted one side of the railroad tracks. The depot and a handful of buildings, including a big adobe barn or warehouse lined the other. Beside the barn were a dozen empty freight wagons.
The place looked like hell, and Albavera didn't think it would appear much better in daylight.
Someone clawed on a banjo inside one of the saloons. Light shone through the windows, and Albavera could see several horses tethered to the hitching rails. The town was dead, except for those six grog shops.
He had thought he might play a little poker in one of those dens, have a whiskey or two, before lighting across the border and disappearing again. The telegraph he had read changed his plans. He knew he wouldn't go to Mexico. Knew he'd ride back west, and try to find Chance, who needed all the help he could get.
Yet Albavera couldn't quite figure out why the hell he had decided on such a foolish option. It wasn't a sure bet. It was sheer folly.
Bowler pulled up the brake lever, and the cart slowed. A man in a sack suit stormed out of the depot, and turned up the two lamps hanging on the wall. Hands on hips, chewing on a corncob pipe, he walked to the side of the platform.
“The wire's still down west of here, Keegan!” the man said. “O'Rourke told you two—”
He stopped, and withdrew the pipe, as Albavera stepped up. He towered over the man in the sack suit.
“Need to send a telegraph,” Albavera said.
“Office is closed.”
Albavera showed him the badge. “It's important.”
The man stared, first at the badge, then up into Albavera's eyes. “Since when do the Texas Rangers hire—”
Suddenly staring down the barrel of the Smith & Wesson .32, Sack Suit shut up. He swallowed, nodded, and turned toward the depot building. “Soon as this wire's sent,” Albavera said, “I'll need a”—a whinny drew his attention to the saloon directly across the tracks—“horse.” He stared, but it was too dark to tell for sure. The horse whinnied again. Yep, that was the gray Andalusian, all right.
“Inside,” Albavera said. “And be damned quick.”
A drunk with a coarse white beard snored softly on a cot in the corner of the office. Albavera considered him briefly, but Sack Suit said, “Let him sleep it off.”
“Sure. He needs his beauty sleep.”
Albavera took a pencil and paper, began scratching out the words, shaking his head, knowing the reaction he would soon get. Sure enough, after he handed the paper to Sack Suit, the man's gray eyes found Albavera.
“Just send the damned thing,” he said.
“I'm not sending this,” Sack Suit protested. “This is absurd. What kind of joke are you pulling?”
The drunk in the corner snorted, and rolled over.
“If I have to point that .32 in your face again, I'm pulling the trigger.” Albavera walked to the window, and looked across the street. The telegraph keys clicked a moment, then again. He waited.
A response came.
Sack Suit began tapping out the rest of the message. He read the words aloud as he clicked out the message, signing it off with the name, “Signed. Dave Chance, Sergeant, E Company.”
The drunk sat up. “Dave Chance?” He rubbed his eyes. “Dave Chance? Where's me Davy boy?”
His hands were like jugs, his fingers the size of railroad spikes. He didn't stand much taller than five-foot-three, and his breath stank of stale beer. The old man's eyes found Albavera, and saw the badge.
“You ain't Davy boy.”
“Dave's a friend of mine,” Albavera said. He stopped, thought about what he had just said.
A friend of mine.
And grinned.
The machine began clicking again. Sack Suit sighed. “They want to know what kind of joke is this?”
“Tell them it's no joke.” Albavera didn't take his eyes off the man with the white beard. “Tell them Chance is alerting the soldiers at Fort Stockton.”
More clicks.
“What's going on here?” White Beard asked.
Sack Suit said, “Captain Savage has gone stark-raving mad.” He clicked out a final note, then waited. The clicking resumed, then stopped. Sack Suit bent over the machine, tapped out a message. Again. And again. He looked up at Albavera. “The line must be down. Had to have just happened.”
BOOK: West Texas Kill
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