CHAPTER TWENTY
Only two springs in Texas produced more water than Comanche Springsâwhich wasn't saying a whole lot. Yet out in West Texas, water meant life, even if it tasted like it had been flavored with rusty iron horseshoes and as bitter as gall.
The water brought freighters on the San Antonio-Chihuahua road, wayfarers on the Overland Mail route, and, before they had been pinned up on the reservation in Indian Territory, Comanches traveling the Great Comanche War Trail. All of which led to the establishment of Fort Stockton, first in the late 1850s, then in 1867 after the War Between the States. Outside the fort, a town sprang up, originally named St. Gaul, but about four years ago the residents had renamed it to match that of the Army post.
In the adobe headquarters building, Chance splashed water from the basin across his face, trying to wake himself up. He patted himself dry with his bandana, and took the cup of steaming coffee the corporal offered him. He sipped it, surprised at its pleasant taste.
“Would you care to have a seat, sir?” The corporal, a thin man with a thick red mustache, motioned at a chair in front of a desk.
With a worn smile, Chance shook his head. He had been in a saddle for sixty miles. The last thing he wanted was to sit down.
The door opened, and in walked the major, a bald, bloated man wearing boots and a nightshirt, carrying the blue trousers with yellow stripes down the legs. Yawning, he made a beeline for his desk, and sat in the chair, barking an order for coffee to the corporal, before taking notice of Chance.
“All right, Ranger,” the major said, as he kicked off his boots, and stood into the pants. “I'm Major J.R. Fields, commander of this post. What's so damned important that you haul me from a pleasant dream at”âhe looked at the Regulator clock on the wall, and shook his headâ“Christ Almighty, twelve-o-seven in the morning?”
Chance set the coffee on the desk, reached into his vest, and withdrew the note Hec Savage had written, handing it across the desk. “Major, I'm Dave Chance, sergeant, Company E, Texas Rangers. I think you had better read this yourself, sir.”
The officer opened a drawer, rooted around, and brought up a pair of spectacles, which he set on the bridge of his nose. He started to read, then stopped, looking up at Chance. “Chance, you say?”
“Yes, sir.” He knew what was coming.
“I seem to recallâ”
“Bad Water Saloon a few years back.”
“That's right.” He continued to look at Chance, sizing him up.
“Major, I really think you should read that letter. It's from Captain Hec Savage.”
“Very well.” His eyes dropped to the note. After a moment, his gray eyes looked up at Chance again as he turned to the second page. He frowned, finished the letter, and let the papers drop onto his desk.
“Are you serious?” the major asked. The corporal brought him his coffee. Major Fields opened another drawer, and brought out a bottle of rye, from which he poured two fingers, then added two more splashes, into the coffee. Looking back at Chance, he said, “Well?”
“Savage has killed, or had killed, three of his men,” Chance replied. “I don't know what his plans are.”
Major Fields picked up the note again. “You rode up here from Presidio?”
“Marathon.”
He looked up from the letter. “Nelson Bookbinder and I were at West Point together. He was a year behind me. A good man, Nelson, a good soldier, a fine friend. Do you think your captain is, as this letter claims, holding him hostage at Fort Leaton?”
Actually, Chance thought Captain Bookbinder and those other enlisted men were dead. Hec Savage had never been one for taking prisoners. Those he did capture alive were often executed shortly afterward by summary judgment. Yet Chance shrugged.
The major sipped his coffee. “Captain Savage can't be serious.”
“If you know Captain Savage, sir, you know he's deadly serious.”
“He's mad.”
Chance nodded. “Fellow I know, should be in Sanderson right about now, agrees with you. He's sending a telegraph to Austin. Least, I hope he is.”
As Chance filled in the story, Major Fields finished his coffee, pressed his fingers together, and rested his head against the tent his hands had formed. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and lowered his hands, looking into Chance's eyes.
“We can't wait for the governor to request help,” Major Fields said. “There's not enough time.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“Besides, your captain is holding an officer and enlisted men of the United States Army hostage. I'll nail his hide to the barn door.” He rose, barking out an order to the corporal. “Stone, send a galloper to Fort Davis. Right now.” He folded Savage's letter, and handed it to Corporal Stone. “Have him deliver this note to Colonel McVicker, ask him to send as many troopers as he can spare to Fort Leaton. Have him request the sheriff of Presidio County assemble a posse to accompany his command.” He began scribbling his orders on paper, talking as he wrote.
“We will follow Coyanosa Draw to Murphyville, and, with luck, meet the colonel and his men on the Alamito before they reach Presidio. Have the galloper tell Colonel McVicker that I cannot attest to the veracity of this letter, but we just cannot risk the lives of Captain Bookbinder and his men, nor those other hostages. Two women and a priest, by God.”
“Not to mention a mayor and a barber,” Chance added.
“Bugger the mayor,” Major Fields roared. “Bugger the barber. Worthless politicians.” He signed and sealed the orders, handed them to Corporal Stone. “Awaken Captain Braden. Inform him that I will head the command, and the captain will be in charge of the post until my return. We will leave him with one company of infantry and anyone in the hospital or guardhouse. All others will go to Presidio. Two weeks' rations and thirty rounds of ammunition per man.”
Stepping into his boots, Fields continued his orders. “When you have informed Captain Braden, have the trumpeter sound reveille. Then you will ride to town and inform Sheriff Vanwy that his presence is requested here immediately. We will organize a joint punitive action against Captain Savage and his gang of black-hearts.”
Chance spoke up. “Fort Leaton is outside Vanwy's jurisdiction, Major. That's Presidio County.”
“I don't give a damn. I don't think Sheriff Vanwy does, either.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Stone saluted the major and hurried out the door.
“You want to come with us, Sergeant?” Major Fields stepped around the desk, pushing his trousers into his boot tops.
Chance finished his coffee. “With the major's permission, I'd like to try something elseâjust in case Captain Savage has other plans. But I could use a horse, sir. Preferably two.” He thought about how hard he'd have to ride. “Better make it three. Mine is played out.”
“Take your pick. And welcome. Just bring those horses back.”
“You just take care of that sorrel. Cost me fifteen dollars.”
“What're your plans, Sergeant?”
Chance grinned. “First, get some sleep.”
The major gave him a look of skepticism.
Chance didn't feel like explaining anything. He needed the rest. He couldn't keep up that pace. If he rode out with the soldiers, he'd likely fall asleep in the saddle five miles south of the fort. It had been an exhausting, jarring ride from Marathon to Fort Stockton, and it wasn't like he had been taking it easy all week. He needed some shuteye. He'd sleep the rest of the night, get up early in the morning, and with three horses, head south back to Marathon. And then? Fort Leaton, to join Major Fields and those soldier boys? Sanderson, and wait on a reply to the telegraph Moses Albavera, maybe, had sent? Chance wasn't sure. Perhaps something would come to him before he reached Marathon tomorrow.
“Very well.” The major was speaking. “You rest. I, however, must prepare for our expedition.” Outside, the metallic blares of a trumpet sounded, and Major Fields went out the door. Left alone, Dave Chance picked up the bottle of rye the officer had left on the desk, and walked outside the headquarters building himself.
The trooper at the Fort Stockton stables let Chance take two bays and a liver chestnut. He threw his saddle on the bay with the blaze on its forehead, and led the other two horses out of the military compound buzzing with activity, and rode to the town, riding to the wagon yard at the southern edge of town. The Negro working there charged him two bits for the night. Chance let him have the last few swings from the bottle of rye.
Surprisingly, he slept well, but woke up stiff and sore. The sun was already rising, and he swore softly. He had wanted to be riding before the sun was up. After he pulled on his boots, he looked over the horses the Army had loaned him, getting a better view than he had gotten at the Army stables. He decided he liked the liver chestnut the best, so saddled it, and led the two bays, one with a blaze forehead, the other with three white feet, out of the wagon yard.
Stomach grumbling, he rode to the café just up the street from the wagon yard, tethered his horses to the hitching rail, and stepped inside to the smell of burned bacon and black coffee. He sat at the counter next to a couple of smelly wolfers, the only customers in the place. The waitress, a big woman with black hair pinned up in a bun, filled a mug with coffee without asking what he wanted to drink.
“Biscuits,” he said, “and gravy.” That should fill him up quickly.
“You got it, hon,” she said in a Texas drawl, and walked to the kitchen to place the order, leaving the coffee on a potbelly stove.
He rubbed his eyes, flexed his wrists, and sipped the bitter brew. The two wolfers muttered something, and the bell above the door chimed as someone else entered the café. Chance looked at the mirror on the wall.
And ducked.
The bullet blew apart the coffeepot, sending it spinning, clattering, spraying the stove with liquid that sizzled against the cast iron. Cursing, the wolfers leaped across the counter, taking their plates and mugs with them, slamming hard against the floor.
“Not again,” the waitress said from the kitchen. Her voice rose. “It's too early for gunplay!”
Chance left the stool, landing on his knees, and pushing himself to his right. He hit the floor with the Schofield extended in his right hand as a second bullet clipped his hat. He fired at the gent's waxed blond mustache, knowing he had missed, and rolled over.
Acrid white smoke clouded the small restaurant, burning Chance's eyes, fouling his nostrils. Glass shattered. The bell above the door rang out again as the man dived outside.
A noise came from behind him, and Chance rolled onto his back, bringing the .45 up. The waitress appeared, holding a pepperbox pistol.
Their eyes met. Chance lowered his pistol, and stood up, looking through the doorway, and out the window.
“Hell,” the waitress was saying, “I figured it was them two wolfers shootin' at each other. But you? You're a Ranger.”
Heading past the woman, Chance said, “So's the guy shooting at me.” He walked through the kitchen, out the back door, and into an alley that smelled of trash and grease. He eased toward the street, keeping his finger on the trigger, the hammer cocked. A rooster crowed. Dogs yelped from all the gunshots. Chance hurried down the alley, crossed over to the other side, and hugged the adobe wall of a cobbler's shop. Across the road, he saw a figure running, leaping, landing on the far side of a water trough.
He had a clear view of the empty street. He made sure his three horses were safe, then focused on the water trough.
When Taw Cutter lifted his head, Chance fired.
The bullet tore off the Ranger's hat, and Cutter ducked. A moment later, he was up, running down the boardwalk, firing from his hip, but not coming close to hitting anything.
Chance sent one round after the fleeing Ranger, then ran in the opposite direction. Moving deliberately to the chestnut, he pulled the Winchester Centennial from the scabbard, and jacked a round into the chamber. Walking into the center of the street, he brought the big rifle to his shoulder.
The .45-70 roared. The bullet splintered a wooden column that held up the awning to the stagecoach station.
Cutter yelped, grabbed his right ear, stumbled, and ran across the street. Firing once, he performed a border shift, tossed his empty pistol from his right hand to his left, and drew another revolver from the holster on his right hip, all while running.
Impressive
, Chance thought.
Cutter's second revolver thundered.
Not impressive
. Chance stood far out of pistol range. He brought the rifle up, and drew a bead on the running figure of Taw Cutter.
He sensed . . . something. Perhaps he heard a noise. Maybe it was instinct, or just plain luck. But instead of pulling the trigger, he leaped to his side, as another bullet buzzed past him and dug into the sandy street.