“Pity,” Savage said aloud. A fine stallion like that would have brought a nice price over in Presidio. He snapped a shot that spilled another Rurale on the far bank from his saddle.
Behind him roared the weapons of his Rangers. In front of him, Lieutenant Moreno tried to push himself to his feet, but slipped back into the reddish-brown waters of the RÃo Grande. Savage aimed again, squeezed the trigger. The Merwin Hulbert warmed his cold hand.
Horses and men screamed. The Rangers cursed, and shot. The air smelled of sulfur, of brimstone. Most of the Rurales lay dead in the river, or on the banks, but three spurred their mounts through the brush, and up a hill, only to be met by a dozen charging, bellowing Mexican bandits, firing revolvers and slashing down with machetes.
In less than a minute, it was over, the only sound coming from the river and the wind, and the occasional pop of a coup de grâce as a Mexican bandit shot a wounded Rurale in the back of his head. Then Savage heard a small groan. Pulling the gelding behind him, he slogged through mud and water toward the lieutenant, who had drifted a few yards downstream.
“Capt'n,” Doc Shaw called out, and Savage paused briefly to consider the Mexicans riding through the brush. Some of them stopped to loot the dead. One, grinning so wide his gold teeth reflected the disappearing sun, kneed his horse into the river while he shoved a Colt revolver into the holster.
“
Amigos
,” Juan Lo Grande boasted, “we work well together, do we not? âO heaven! were man but constant, he were perfect.'”
Ignoring the bandit, Savage reached the lieutenant, whose fancy jacket had snagged on an uprooted sandbar willow in the middle of the river, partially buried in the mud. Blood seeped from both corners of the young man's mouth, and his eyes looked up, begging for mercy, while his right fingers fumbled for something on his chest.
Savage considered Lo Grande and the bandits for a moment, but holstered the .44. He knelt into the river, the cold water pricking his nerves, and gripped the gold crucifix in the fingers of his right hand. Spitting out the cigar he asked, “This what you want, Moreno?”
The lieutenant tried to speak, but couldn't.
Savage rose, jerking the gold cross from its rawhide string, then shoving it into his coat pocket. Juan Lo Grande said something, probably quoting Shakespeare again, but Savage focused on the dying lieutenant. He turned back to his horse and started for the saddle, thinking he might use the double-barrel Parker 12-gauge to finish the job before deciding he didn't want to waste any lead. With Juan Lo Grande, he might need every shot he had.
He turned back, looked down once more at Moreno.
“Remember the Alamo,” Savage said hoarsely. He put his right boot on the Rurale officer's nose, and pressed down until Moreno's head sank beneath the muddy water.
CHAPTER TWO
Fort Davis was his favorite town.
Oh, there wasn't anything spectacular about the little burg itself, a few scattered adobe and stone buildings, some wood frame businesses with silly facades, a couple log cabins, and plenty of jacales, hovels, and picket houses. Yet it didn't resemble most of the parasite communities that sprang up around military posts, and the town's namesake fort was one sprawling compound with plenty of troopers assigned to guard the San Antonio-El Paso road. Hell, the little town boasted a Methodist church and Sunday school meeting house, an ice house, and a two-story saloon. Sergeant Dave Chance rode toward the latter.
Chance admired more than the town. The community braced against the Davis Mountains. Thick woods of piñon, juniper, oak, and ponderosa pine housed mule deer, rock squirrels, and white-winged doves. Rich grasslands fed thousands of Don Melitón Benton's longhorn cattle that watered in lovely Limpia Creek. Surrounded by the northern Chihuahuan Desert, Fort Davis had always been an oasis in the middle of Hades.
Much of West Texas would swallow a man, chew him up, spit him out. Water, when you could find it, often tasted like alkali or iron, and left lesser stomachs suffering from bowel complaint. The wind blew brutally harsh, and every animal and plant would bite, stick, or poison you. The same might be said of most of the men and women who hung their hats in the region.
A peace, however, settled over Chance whenever he rode into Fort Davis. He figured he'd like to be buried there when his time came.
That time,
he lamented,
might be this morning.
He came up from the southeast on the old Overland Mail Company road, commonly called the Butterfield Trail. The town was divided into three sections: Chihuahua, where the cribs were located on Chihuahua Creek; Fort Davis proper, the largest region, due south of the military post; and Newtown, just east of the fort. When Chance rode past the courthouse in Fort Davis, a peon rode up beside him on a blind mule, giving him a curious look.
“
Señor
,” the rail-thin, gray-haired man said, tilting his head at the drab-looking building. “
¿Te gustarÃa pedir ayuda?
”
Chance answered with a calming smile, shaking his head. “I don't need any help. It's only one hombre I'm after, right?”
Grinning, the old man nodded, but Chance thought the smile was forced. The peon looked mighty worried.
Actually, Dave Chance would have given two months' salary for help, but he couldn't put any citizen of Presidio County at risk, not even some well-meaning lawman. Not against the likes of Moses Albavera. Nobody in Fort Davis cared how many men Albavera had killed in Galveston.
The aroma of baked apples, fresh coffee, and frying bacon wafted out of the Lempert Hotel as he rode on, tormenting his stomach. He hadn't eaten since the day before and that meal had consisted of the last of his jerky and a stale biscuit that had nigh broken a couple teeth. He'd have to stop by the Sender Brothers store for supplies on his way out of town . . . if he lived.
They rode on to Newtown, reining up in front of the saloon. The two-story structure had been built only a couple years ago, but looked older than dirt. It had gone through a number of owners in its short life, and from the bullet holes pockmarking the crumbling adobe bricks, Chance didn't think the saloon would live much longer. The hitching rails out front were full, but the gray Andalusian stallion stood out among the cow ponies and old cavalry mounts. A proud-looking horse, standing a good sixteen hands, it had a deep body, powerful hindquarters, beautiful mane and tail. The Andalusian looked like it could carry its rider a far piece.
Chance took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and turned to the peon. “
Gracias, Miguel.
You best get on home now.”
He didn't need to tell the old man anything else.
When the Mexican and blind mule had rounded the corner, Chance swung from the saddle, and removed his red mackinaw and gauntlets. The fringed gloves went into the pockets of the wool jacket. The mackinaw was draped over the saddle as his horse stood patiently. There was no room at the hitching rails, and Chance didn't bother to hobble the gelding. After tugging at the Schofield revolver holstered on his right hip, he felt behind his back for the handle of the double-action Smith & Wesson .32 as he walked to the Andalusian. He ran his fingers under the cinch.
Most men visiting a saloon would have loosened the girth, but that one was tighter than Dave Chance's old man. He pulled on the latigo, loosened the cinch, then pushed up his hat, and stepped to the saloon doors, taking another deep breath before heading inside.
Sunday morning, not yet eleven, and Chance figured more people had congregated at the nameless saloon than at the churches in town. The place reeked of stale beer and sawdust, the cacophony of voices assaulting his ears as he walked to the potbelly stove in the center of the room, and held his hands out to the cast iron stove to warm himself.
A redheaded woman, rouge caked on her face with a spade, came up to him, and asked, “What'll youâ?” Her rye-soaked question stopped before she finished, and her eyes, one green, one brown, locked on the peso star pinned above the pocket of his black vest. “Aw, hell.”
“You got any coffee?” Chance asked.
“Coffee?” Incredulously, she stared at him.
“With cream.”
“All we got's goat's milk.”
“That'll do.”
“You ain't lookin'â”
“Coffee with a splash of milk. Milk helps keep my teeth white.” He flashed her his smile. His teeth looked more yellow than pearly, but at least he had all of them. Other than in his mouth, he doubted if there were a full set of teeth in the entire saloon.
He watched her head to another stove on the other side of the bar. She didn't talk to anyone, not even the big beer-jerker working the bar, except to curse the rawboned cowhand with the new Stetson who slapped her buttocks as she walked past him.
Keeping his hands near the stove, Chance looked past the stovepipe, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness of the saloon. Cowhands lined the bar, a bunch of muleskinners stood by the roulette wheel, and some officers of the Third Cavalry sat at a table by the window, sipping Jameson. Well, the label on the bottle said Jameson, but in an establishment like that, Chance figured the Irish whiskey had been consumed years ago, and the bottle was filled with forty-rod rotgut.
Past the roulette wheel, he saw the card tables: three faro layouts and a poker table. The faro players were segregated: whites at one, Mexicans at another, blacks at the last one. He studied the blacks, but found only some cheering retired buffalo soldiers. The 10th Cavalry had been stationed at Fort Davis until the past spring. He was about to examine the poker players when the redhead returned with his coffee.
“Here you go,” she said.
He took the proffered pewter beer stein with his left hand, and tested the steaming brew. Chance grimaced. “This tastes like crap.”
“So does our whiskey. That'll be a two bits.”
“For coffee?” He fished into his vest pocket for a quarter. “How much is your whiskey?”
“Same. Everything in here costs two bits. Even a poke.” She grinned at him. Her teeth were darker than his, and she was missing a bottom front one. “If you's interested.”
“If a poke's as crummy as your coffee and whiskey, I'll pass,” he said.
Beneath all that rouge, the redhead's face flushed. Chance thought she might slap him, but she turned in a huff, and strode back to the bar.
Chance tried another sip of coffee, grimaced, and put the stein on the stove. Walking across the creaking floor, around the roulette table, and past the faro layouts, he leaned against a wooden column beside the poker table.
The poker table was integrated.
A fat white man with a whiskey-sodden Roman nose tossed down his cards with a curse, and reached for a bottle of tequila in front of the few chips he had left. He wore an unbuttoned blouse, with the chevrons of an infantry corporal on the sleeves, and a well-worn Army kepi. Across from him, a merchant in a black broadcloth suit, smiled, and raked in the pot. He was a dark-haired man, with a gold Star of David pinned on the coat's lapel. To the merchant's right sat another soldier, a cavalry trooper with blond hair and peach fuzz for a mustache. Although Chance could see only the side of the trooper's face, the kid didn't look old enough to be in either the Army or a saloon. Next to the trooper sat a Mexican vaquero, smoking a sweet-smelling cheroot. Chance couldn't see the man's face, but he didn't have to. To the right of the infantry corporal sat a woman, who gathered the cards and began shuffling. She wore tinted glassesâthough sunlight was rarer than good whiskey in a bucket of blood like that placeâand a fashionable ladies riding outfit of garnet and green. The jacket was double-breasted, a brooch pinned above her heart. A riding crop leaned against her chair. She also had a stack of chips larger than anyone else at the table. She looked a hell of a lot better than the redhead who had served him coffee, and Chance decided she probably had all of her teeth. Whiter than his, to be sure.
A handful of menâblack, white, and Mexicanâand one of the saloon girls had gathered around the table, watching the lady gambler. Yet it was the final man, sitting between the woman and the merchant, who interested Chance.
He wore a rakish double-breasted vest the color of Madeira, a black tie with a diamond stickpin under the collar of a fancy cream shirt with black stripes and a tapered bottom bib front. His hat was black, with a horsehair hatband of red, gray and blue. The brim curled at the sides, dipped in the front and back, and had a telescope crown. A linen duster and fringed buckskin coat were draped on the seat of his chair. Both hands rested beneath the table. His eyes locked on Chance.
He looked to be a large man, broad shouldered, probably would stand a good two inches taller than Chance, and Chance was six-foot-one in his boots. He was a black man, clean shaven except for a thick mustache flecked with gray. His hair was close-cropped. A Seth Thomas watch with a gold chain laid beside his pile of chips, a few gold coins, and some crumpled greenbacks. He hadn't won as much as the woman, but he had done pretty well. A beer stein was to the man's right. A slight Mexican saloon girl, probably in her teens, came over and topped the stein with black coffee. The man made no move for the cup. Just sat there, staring at Chance.
The woman shuffled the cards, passed them to the black man to cut. Without looking at the deck, he raised his right hand, saying, “Thin to win,” and cut the cards. As the woman gathered the deck, Chance stepped away from the wooden column, and spoke in a voice just loud enough to be heard. “Moses Albavera.”
The woman left the cards on the warped table. The vaquero slid his chair back, and studied Chance. The saloon turned quiet.
“Do you have business with me?” the black man said in a stentorian voice. He could have been somewhere between thirty and fifty years old.
“There's the little matter of a murder warrant,” Chance said.
The merchant, trooper, and infantry corporal hurriedly left the table. The vaquero slid his chair a little farther out of the line of fire. That was good, Chance thought. It gave him a chance to give the Mexican a quick glance. He was unarmed, merely curious. The woman removed her glasses, and laid them on the table. Her eyes kept darting between Albavera and Chance.
“Don Melitón send you?” Albavera reached for his coffee stein and took a sip.
The words surprised Chance, but his face remained granite as he shook his head. “Why would he send me?”
With a shrug, Albavera said, “He owns Presidio County, I'm told. Owns most of the Big Bend country.” He took another sip of coffee. His left hand remained underneath the table. “And I killed his son two days ago. Down in Shafter.”
Shafter was a silver-mining town on the eastern edge of the Chinati Mountains, maybe sixty miles south of Fort Davis. Spitting distance from Don Melitón Benton's
rancho
.
“You killed Prince Benton?” Chance couldn't hide his surprise, even though the old don's son had always been a heel and was bound to get killed sooner or later.
“It was a fair fight.”
Chance admired Albavera's grit. He had killed Prince Benton, and instead of lighting a shuck for the Mexican border, maybe twenty miles from Shafter, he had ridden north to Fort Davis. Not that it mattered. Don Melitón likely would have tracked Albavera all the way to Cape Horn to avenge his son's death, no matter how worthless Prince had been.
“I imagine it was,” Chance said, “but I didn't know about Prince Benton. Don Melitón didn't send me.” With his left hand, he tapped the circled five-point star on his vest. “I'm a Texas Ranger. Warrant I'm serving was issued in Galveston.”
“The Marin brothers?” Now it was Albavera who looked surprised.
Chance's head bobbed.