CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Chance was a dead man. He knew that as he tried to find the Ranger down the street in his gun sights. Next to Doc Shaw, Eliot Thompson was probably the best rifle shot in Company E, and Chance lay in the center of the street, with no place to hide. Thompson appeared to be grinning as his finger tightened on the trigger.
A gun roared, but Chance didn't see any smoke from Thompson's Winchester. Instead, Thompson was catapulted to his side, sending the rifle cartwheeling across the road. A gray stallion, lathered with sweat, loped around the corner of an adobe jacal across from the wagon yard, and Chance recognized the dark figure in the saddle. The Andalusian shifted into a weary gallop. Chance rolled over, came to his knees, and aimed the Centennial at Taw Cutter. Seeing Thompson down, and another rider thundering into town, Cutter loosened one quick, fruitless shot at Chance, and kicked open the closed door to a saloon. He disappeared inside.
Chance looked at the sign above the doors.
BAD WATER SALOON
. “Great,” he sighed, and looked back.
Thompson had crawled to the Winchester, and was using the rifle as a crutch. He pushed himself up to his knees, the left side of his shirt soaked with blood. Moses Albavera reined in the Andalusian, and slid from the saddle, shoving Miss Vickie in the holster, and reaching into the pocket of his buckskin coat. Thompson let the rifle fall, and reached for a .45 holstered, butt forward, on his left hip.
A small pistol bucked in Albavera's right hand, the bullet driving into Thompson's gut.
“âNo . . .'”
Another shot.
“ âNiggers . . .'”
Another shot.
“âAllowed . . .'”
Boom!
“âIn . . .'”
Boom!
“âSavage.'”
The hammer clicked empty. “Isn't that what you said, Ranger?” Albavera swung around, crouched, and ran toward Chance, leaving the Andalusian in the street, leaving the bullet-riddled body of Eliot Thompson in the dust.
Chance was on his feet, waved his hand at the Bad Water Saloon, and sprinted across the street. A bullet kicked up dust in front of him. Chance answered, firing from the hip. He reached the adobe wall of the saloon a few rods from the door. Albavera leaped over the hitching rail, and flattened himself against the wall next to Chance. He reloaded the sawed-off Springfield, then broke open the Smith & Wesson .32, ejecting the five spent casings. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he brought out a handful of bullets, and thumbed them into the cylinder.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chance said tightly, keeping his eyes on the front door and window to the saloon.
“You're welcome.” Albavera snapped the .32 shut. “Hell, man, I just saved your life.”
“I wanted him alive.” Chance spit, and wiped his mouth. “And I told you to go to Sanderson.”
“I did. Sent your damned telegraph. Killed that Ranger with the Mexican hat.”
“Bucky Bragg?”
“I didn't ask his name. He didn't give it.”
“How'd you get here so fast?”
“It's a long damned story. Maybe I can tell it to you over a morning bracer.” He pointed the .32's small barrel at the door.
“I could use a drink,” Chance said.
“Hey.” Albavera raised his head. “Isn't this the Bad Springs Saloon?”
“Bad Water,” Chance corrected.
“Who's inside?”
“Taw Cutter. He's got one six-shooter. And there's no back door to this place.”
“He might have found the scattergun the beer-jerker keeps behind the bar,” Albavera said.
“Maybe.” Chance looked down the street. The two wolfers, the cook, and the waitress were standing in front of the café, keeping a respectful distance from any potentially stray bullet. A couple dogs on the porch in front of the Comanche Springs Bank were barking, growling. Nobody else dared show his face.
Albavera shook his head. “I don't care much for shotguns. If memory serves, that's a sawed-off Greener behind that bar. Twelve gauge.”
“It's not your concern. I figured you'd be in Mexico by now.”
“Where's the sheriff?” Albavera asked.
“Rode off with the Army boys to Fort Leaton.”
“Not all of them, I'm sure. We could ask the soldiers for some help.”
“There's only one man in there.”
“Uh-huh.” Albavera slid the Smith & Wesson into his coat pocket, pulled the Springfield from the holster, and thumbed back the hammer. “And Savage could only afford to send one man to Sanderson. Hell, Chance, there were three.”
Chance turned, unbelieving. “Three?”
“That's right. Three. The bastard who stole my Andalusian and two Mexicans.”
“Mexicans?”
“Yeah. I know Mexicans when I see them, especially when one's about to tear my head off with a machete.”
Chance looked back at the doorway. “Well, I'm not leaving Taw Cutter here. Besides, this is a civilian matter. Army's got no jurisdiction here.”
“Suit yourself. How you want to handle it?”
Staring again at the big Moor, Chance started to say something, but couldn't find the right words. He shook his head, and turned again to the doorway. Suddenly, he swung back around, reached out with his left hand, and fingered the badge Albavera had pinned on his vest. Their eyes met.
Albavera grinned. “I deputized myself. The Rangers also owe Corbett's Hardware Store in Sanderson for a box of .32s, since you didn't give me any extra ammunition.”
“Didn't occur to me.” Chance eased his way toward the door, his back braced against the adobe. “This isn't your fight.”
Albavera followed him. “The hell it isn't. I don't tolerate horse thieves.”
“You got your horse back.”
“And I'm damned sure not letting a bunch of ignorant, murdering racists run me out of this country. âNo niggers allowed in Savage.' We'll see about that. I'm with you, Ranger Chance.”
Chance yelled at the doorway. “Cutter! There's no way out. Throw your gun out, and come out with your hands high.”
“Come and get me!” a panicked voice cried from inside the dark saloon.
Still staring at the door, Chance whispered, “Where do you make him?”
“Behind the bar.” Albavera shook his head, sighing, and added, “Likely with that Greener in his hands.” With his left hand, he drew the .32 from his coat pocket, and thumbed back the hammer.
“I want him alive. I'll go through the window. You come through the door. I'll come up on the left. You cover the right.”
“Who's got the center?” Albavera asked, but Chance was already moving.
Pulling the trigger to the Winchester as he leaped, Chance watched the glass window shatter as he dived through the opening. He landed on a poker table, which collapsed under the force of his impact. Rolling onto the floor, shards of glass tore into his hands as he worked the Centennial's lever.
Albavera ducked through the doorway, keeping low, snapping a shot from the .32 in his left hand that shattered a jug of mescal on the bar. Moving to his right, the sawed-off Springfield in his right hand, he dived to the floor, overturning a table. He crouched behind it, using it for shelter.
Chance came to his knees, swinging the rifle barrel from one side to the other, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.
Both men had expected to be greeted with gunfire. Instead, they heard only the barking of dogs outside. Gunsmoke drifted toward the ceiling, catching rays of sunlight that streamed through the broken window and doorway.
The place smelled of gunsmoke, sawdust, and spilled whiskey.
Albavera peered around the corner of the table, focused on the bar, scanned the top, the sides, then looked over at Chance, who motioned him to one side of the bar. The black man nodded in acknowledgment, and began creeping across the saloon's hard-packed earthen floor. Chance moved to the opposite end.
He leaned against the side of the bar, sucked in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and dived to the floor, the Winchester ready. Eighteen feet down the bar, he saw Moses Albavera do the same.
They raised the barrels of their weapons, and quickly slid behind the bar.
“Where the hell is he?” Albavera mouthed.
Carefully, Chance stood. He peered at the shadows, the corners. Nothing. Albavera looked at the low ceiling, but there was no place for anyone to hide up there. Barely enough room for a rat. Chance stepped back, aiming the barrel underneath the bar, but found only bottles, bung starters, and trash. Albavera ran his tongue over his cracked lips. The two men looked at each other.
“Trap door?” Albavera asked, audible now.
“Hell, I don't know.” Chance placed the cocked Centennial on the bar, and reached for a bottle of tequila.
Albavera took a couple steps behind the bar, holstering Miss Vickie and moving the Smith & Wesson to his right hand. He pointed, and looked up as Chance splashed clear liquid into a dirty glass. “The Greener's gone.”
Chance glanced under the bar, again scanned the room, and slid the glass across the bar toward Albavera.
Outside, the dogs had stopped barking. Muffled voices could be heard.
Chance filled another dirty glass and killed the tequila in two swallows. His eyes scanned the ceiling again, then he began kicking the baseboard on the bar. He refilled his glass, and picked it up with his left hand.
Albavera lifted his glass, and stepped in front of stacked barrels marked WHISKEY. One of the barrels toppled and caught his arm, knocking the .32 and the glass of whiskey to the floor. Taw Cutter leaped from behind the high stacked barrels, slamming the giant muzzles of the Greener shotgun into Albavera's throat. “Leave the Winchester on the bar, Chance, or I blow this nigger's head clear off.”
Chance's right hand froze on the Centennial. “Let him go.”
“No way. I'm backing out of here. You move, and I kill him.”
Chance shook his head. “Then I kill you.”
“I don't think so, Chance.” Cutter's smile was crooked. “You always were too damned soft.” He tugged on Albavera's shoulder. “Start backing.”
Albavera obeyed.
Chance kept his hand on the Winchester, but didn't make any attempt to lift it. His left hand brought the glass of tequila to his lips. He sipped, and stood there. Watching.
Albavera slid around an overturned table, tipped over a chair, and felt the barrels of the Greener bite deeper into the flesh under his chin.
The two men stopped. “Don't try nothing smart, darky,” Cutter said, his voice tight. The man stank of sweat, horseflesh, and leather.
“Man, I can't see where I'm going,” Albavera said. “You try backing up with a shotgun under your chin. Don't shoot me just because I stumble. I'm trying to keep my feet.”
“Just move,” Cutter said.
At the bar, Chance sipped his drink.
“All I'm doing,” Cutter said, his voice tense, “is taking the darky out of here. You stay put, Chance. I get on my horse. I ride away. All three of us get to go on living.”
Chance swallowed the tequila. Took another swig.
Cutter won't do that. As soon as he is out the door, he'll blow Albavera's head off.
Cutter would have the upper hand then. He'd have Chance pinned inside that bucket of blood. He swallowed, took another sip. Looking away from Cutter, Chance locked eyes with Albavera.
He stopped as he reached the door.
Cutter's fingers squeezed hard. “Keep moving, nigger.”
Albavera stumbled again, but jerked back his head, slamming it into Cutter's nose, and dived to his left, saying, “Go to hell.”
The Centennial was aimed waist high at the doorway. Chance's finger had never left the trigger, and the .45-70 had been cocked. As Albavera dived to his left, the rifle roared. Both barrels of the shotgun discharged, shrouding Cutter's face in white smoke, but only briefly. The .45-70 caught him in his midsection, sending him sailing through the doorway and onto the street.
Chance finished the tequila, set the empty glass down, and came over the bar, jacking another round into the Winchester. Moving toward the door, he watched Albavera pick himself off the floor, and Taw Cutter writhing on the ground.
Albavera slapped his ringing ears, and shook his head. His eyes met Chance's, and the two men stepped through the door, stopped underneath the awning, and looked down at Taw Cutter.