“Hell, man, that was eight years ago.”
“Reckon so. But there's no statute of limitations on a murder charge.”
“That was a fair fight, too. Fairer even than that Benton punk. There were two Marin brothers, and one of them was about to shoot me in the back.”
Chance shrugged, and straightened. “I don't care.”
“Ranger.” Albavera spoke in a tired voice. “I've no quarrel with you.”
“Good. That'll make our trip to Galveston much more pleasant.”
“I don't want to kill you.”
The curiosity of the vaquero died. He rose slowly, and joined the crowd.
“You killing me wouldn't make our trip pleasant. But me killing you?” Chance dropped his hand by the butt of the Schofield. “You want to put your left arm on the table?”
The black man's head shook. “Can't. It's holding a sawed-off Springfield rifle that's pointed at your gut.”
“That gives you only one shot.”
Albavera smiled.
Probably has all his teeth, too,
Chance thought.
The black man said, “That's all I need.”
A momentary silence was broken by a shout from the bar. “Five dollars says the Ranger kills him.”
“I'll take that bet!” came a reply from one of the old buffalo soldiers at the faro layout.
Albavera's eyes hardened. He gathered his money and the pocketwatch, which he dropped into his vest pocket, pushed the chips toward the woman, and spoke in a pleasant voice. “Miss Lottie, I'd like to cash in.”
“One of you two's about to do just that,” she said, but collected his chips and counted out a wad of greenbacks, which she shoved to Albavera. That money, too, he pocketed. Then rose.
The weapon in his massive left hand was, indeed, a sawed-off Springfield, the barrel cut down to an inch past the forearm, the walnut stock carved into a pistol grip decorated by brass studs forming a star.
That impressed Dave Chance. If he tried to shoot a weapon like that, it would probably break his wrist.
Strapped to a shell belt filled with big brass .45-70 cartridges was a big holster, tied down on Albavera's left thigh. The man wore striped black britches tucked inside spotless stovepipe boots with white crescent moons inlaid in the tops. No spurs.
“Drop your gunbelt, Ranger.” Nodding at the weapon he held, Albavera said, “Miss Vickie here will blow a hole in you big enough to drive a Studebaker through.”
The Springfield, Chance noticed, was cocked.
“Shoot the damned darky!” another voice cried from the bar.
Seven tense seconds passed before Chance let out a weary sigh, and unbuckled the russet gunbelt, letting the Schofield drop heavily to the floor.
“Now, kick it under the table.”
Chance did as he was instructed.
“Ladies, gents,” Albavera said, taking a chance, laying the Springfield on the table as he donned his coat, then his duster. “I'll be taking my leave now. Please don't anyone stick his or her head out of the door or window. I'd hate to kill anybody on this fine morning. Grounds a little hard to be digging a grave.”
He picked up the Springfield, tipped his hat at Lottie, smiled at Chance, and backed his way to the door.
“Why didn't you make a play for that bastard when he put that big gun of his on the table?” the infantry corporal demanded. “You could have at least tried.”
“Why didn't you?” Chance watched Albavera nod once more, turn and run.
Chance was already sprinting, drawing the Smith & Wesson .32 from his back.
“Hooray!” called one of the white bettors at the bar.
“Watch out, mister!” warned one of the old buffalo soldiers at the faro layout.
“Ten dollars says the colored boy gets away!” someone bet.
“Five-to-one dollar says there'll be a double funeral mañana.”
Chance ran past the door. Outside, he heard the nervous snorts of horses stamping their feet. He weaved around a couple tables, shoved a muleskinner out of his way, jumped onto another table, overturning a pitcher of beer, and dived through the window.
CHAPTER THREE
Slivers bit into his neck and arms as he fell in a cascade of broken glass. Horses snorted and stomped. Screams and cackles came from inside the saloon. Sergeant Dave Chance landed with a thud on the hard-packed earth in front of the buildingâthe landlord had been too damned cheap to put up a boardwalk or porchâand immediately rolled to his right, the Smith & Wesson extended in front of him. Surprisingly, his hat remained on his head.
For a moment, all he saw were the hooves and saddles of the horses tied to the hitching rails. Finally, he made out the gray legs of the Andalusian stallion. Moses Albavera had led the horse away from the other animals and was swinging into the saddle. To Chance's astonishment, Albavera made no move to shoot him.
Saving his shot,
Chance figured.
He only has one.
Scrambling to his knees, Chance dived behind a water trough, caught his breath, and made his way to the right corner. He peered around the trough and hindquarters of a small blue roan.
Albavera threw his left leg in the stirrup, his right hand gripping the saddle horn and reins. His left hand held the sawed-off Springfield as he tried to boost himself into the saddle. He didn't make it.
With its girth loosened, the saddle slipped under the big man's weight, and he crashed to the ground with a thud.
Inside the saloon, someone groaned. A few of the patrons, the bettors, most likely, had chanced a few looks out the windows and doorway.
Chance fired a shot into the air, spooking the Andalusian into taking a few steps away from Albavera. Most of the horses at the hitching rails had already been frightened when Chance busted through the plate-glass window. The roan broke its reins, took off south toward Chihuahua. Another bay fell to its knees. On the far side, a claybank reared, jerking the rail from its post, which allowed the ten other mounts to slip free, and take off at a lope down the Overland trail.
“Hell's bells!” a cowboy cried out, and busted through the door.
“Stay inside, you damned fool!” Chance cried. He dived away from the trough, landed on his right shoulder, and drew a bead on Moses Albavera as the black man rose, swinging the Springfield in Chance's direction.
The .32 bucked in Chance's hand. Over the din of noise, he heard the whine of the bullet as it splintered the Springfield's forearm, and sent the sawed-off rifle spinning toward another water trough, knocking Albavera off balance. The man-killer landed on his buttocks.
He looked dazed, but only for a moment.
Chance came to his knees, brought the Smith & Wesson level, and pointed the gun's short barrel at Albavera's diamond stickpin. “Don't move.”
Albavera didn't, except for shaking the cobwebs out of his head.
“Crap!” came a yell from inside the saloon.
Chance climbed to his feet, keeping the Smith & Wesson trained on the gunman, who grinned and sat with his legs outstretched, his hat still on, and the Andalusian a few rods behind him. Chance's own horse also had not run.
“Ranger?” a cowboy asked from the doorway. “Is it all right if we go fetch our horses? The ramrod at the Backward-C-Lazy-Seven won't take kindly if we come home afoot.”
“Go ahead.” Chance's eyes never left Albavera. “Just walk behind my prisoner.”
A half-dozen cowhands, soldiers, muleskinners, saloon girls, and the woman gambler named Lottie stepped outside. All but the cowboys stayed close to the saloon.
“You're a good shot, Ranger,” Albavera said. He pointed at the Springfield. “You do that on purpose?”
Chance shook his head. “I was aiming for your gut.”
Albavera's smile widened. “I figured.” He shook his head again. “Well, I guess I'm your prisoner.”
Chance never lowered the .32. He watched as Albavera brushed the dirt off his hands on his outstretched pant legs, on the sleeves of his linen duster, then wiped them on the front of his vest. Chance started toward him, heard a cough, shot a glance at the saloon front, then looked back to Albavera. “Damn.”
Moses Albavera had fished an over-under .41-caliber Remington derringer from his vest pocket. He fired once, the bullet tearing off Chance's hat as he ducked. Quickly, Chance cut loose, knowing he missed, as he dived to the ground. He rolled, came up, and saw Albavera rounding the corner of the saloon. Chance held his shot.
Someone in front of the saloon whistled with appreciation.
Chance's revolver was a five-shot, but he always kept the chamber under the hammer empty. He had fired three times, leaving him with one round. Fishing out a few extra shells from his vest pocket, he quickly reloaded the top-break .32, giving him five shots to Albavera's one round left in the double-shot Remington.
Unless, he realized, Albavera had reloaded the derringer.
He walked back to the water trough and picked up the Springfield in his left hand. The sawed-off rifle appeared to be in working condition. His slug had only splintered the forearm a bit. Stepping toward the saloon, he pulled back the hammer of the big gun. He tried to think.
The two-story saloon lay in pretty much open country, with some outhouses behind it, and a few adobe structures off to the north. More buildings lay south, before Chihuahua, but Albavera would be in open country if he made his run that way. Behind the saloon there was nothing but open prairie for a good three hundred yards, then a barbed-wire fence that would offer no cover. Beyond that rose a mountain, but the mountain was treeless. If Albavera went that way, he'd be a sitting duck.
Chance decided Albavera's only shot at escape lay right by the saloon. He'd want to get that Andalusian, if he could; if not, then one of the horses that hadn't spooked. He'd make his escape then. First, however, he'd have to kill Dave Chance.
“Reckon you got a choice, Ranger,” a burly black man said, grinning a toothless smile. “Which corner of this building you wanna stick your head around. Which corner won't get your head blowed clean off.”
Chance pointed the barrel of the sawed-off Springfield at the man's big belly. “Anybody here shouts a warning,” he said calmly, “I'll kill him.” He looked at Lottie. “Or her.” He pushed his way past the crowd, and entered the saloon.
The beer-jerker behind the bar scowled at him as Chance made his way to the poker table. He couldn't blame him. Nobody in the saloon was ordering anything to drink, and the roulette wheel, faro layouts, and poker table were empty. Underneath the table, he found his gunbelt. He buckled it on, checked the Schofield, and headed for the stairs, feeling he had enough firepower to handle Moses Albavera.
All eyes were on the Ranger as he made his way up the steps to the second level.
He picked the center door facing the back, hoping the room had a window. Quietly he turned the knob, pushed open the door slightly, and enteredâ.32 first.
The room appeared to be an office. A lawyer's bookcase stood by the door, a roll-top desk was in the center opposite a couple of reception chairs covered in silk damask. Pretty fancy for a grog shop. Behind the desk was a window that drew Chance's attention. Leaving the door open, he eased his way across the creaking floorboards to the desk, then to the window.
The walls, of course, were thin. To his left, he heard the squeaking of bedsprings, and a woman's gigglesâwhich was what he had expected to find in the room he was in. Apparently, the happenings downstairs and outside held no interest for the amorous couple next door. He started to gently push back the drapes, when a noise to his right stopped him.
Behind the walls came the groan of a window, followed by a woman's gasp. “What the hell?” He heard her clearly. Then, “Moses . . . what are youâ”
He even heard Albavera's desperate “Shhh. Quiet, Ramona. Quiet.”
Smiling, Chance looked out the window and saw a ladder leaning against the saloon. Carefully, he set the Springfield and Smith & Wesson on the desktop, and quietly knelt, pulling off his boots, careful to keep the jinglebobs on his spurs from chiming. Finished, he rose, picked up both weapons, and quietly picked his way across the floor in his stocking feet, halting at the door. He put his left ear against the wall.
For a moment, all he heard were the clanks of glass and muffled conversations on the floor below. The squeaking and giggles from the room on the left had stopped, but the voices came clearly.
“How was that, Judy?”
“That'll be two bits, sugar.”
The right-hand door opened. Boots creaked on the floor. The conversations and noise downstairs immediately ceased.
Chance held his breath, waiting, listening as the boots neared. Moses Albavera's broad back came into view. He held a Remington in his right hand, his left gripping the balustrade, watching below. The big man kept walking, not bothering to look at the doors on the east wall. Chance waited until the man's back was even with the Springfield rifle in his left hand.
“Drop your derringer, Moses,” Chance said. “Miss Vickie here will blow a hole in you big enough to drive a Studebaker through.”
Surprisingly, Moses Albavera laughed, and dropped the Remington on the floor.
“Kick it under the railing.”
“It might go off.”
“It might. Kick it.”
Albavera swept his foot, and the little hideaway pistol dropped to the first floor with a thud. It didn't discharge.
“Reckon we think alike, Ranger,” Albavera said. “Guess that's my mistake.”
“We're even then,” Chance said. “My mistake was taking my eyes off you for a second outside. Gave you a chance to palm that derringer. Were you aiming at my hat?”
Albavera's head shook. “I was aiming for your head.”
“Don't move.” Chance stepped out of the doorway and prodded Albavera's back with the Springfield's barrel. The door behind him opened. Without looking at the prostitute, Chance said, “Ramona, would you be so kind as to go into that office and fetch my boots?”
No answer.
“Do it, Ramona,” Albavera said. “Do it for old Moses here.”
She did as she was told, and the other door opened. A young cowboy's head appeared in the crack. Behind him was the curious face of a whore.
Slowly, Albavera drew a quarter from his vest pocket and tossed it in front of the door. “Y'all go have yourself another quickie. Old Moses's treat.”
The door slammed shut.
Halfway down the stairs Chance made Albavera stop while he hurriedly pulled on his boots. He gathered both guns, continued down the stairs, and headed outside, the crowd of men and women parting for them like the Red Sea.
The gamblers began paying off or collecting their debts.
Chance prodded Albavera past the horses and troughs, stopping to pick up his hat. He ran a finger through the hole in the center of the crown, and pulled the battered hat on his head.
“Walk to the sorrel,” Chance ordered.
“Your horse?” Albavera asked.
“Yes.”
“Nice looking mount.”
“So's yours.”
Albavera stopped by the sorrel gelding.
“Stand there, hands up,” Chance ordered, and walked to the horse. He shoved the Smith & Wesson behind his back, kept the Springfield trained on Albavera, and gathered his mackinaw from the saddle. “Open the saddlebag,” Chance said, “pull out a pair of bracelets, put them on your wrists.”
The black man did as he was told.
“Step away from the sorrel.”
Again, Albavera obeyed.
Chance placed the Springfield at his feet, pulled on his jacket, and then drew a Winchester Centennial from its scabbard.
“Nice rifle,” Albavera said.
“Uh-huh. Now, mount up.”
“What about my stallion?”
“I'll ride him. I figure that gray can outrun that sorrel of mine. In case you get the notion.”
“I don't know,” Albavera said. “This little gelding's got a lot of heart, lot of stamina, I think. Might be a good horse race.”
“Mount up.”
Grunting, Albavera swung into the saddle.
“All right.” Chance turned, saw the Andalusian, and remembered the saddle. Sighing, he barked an order at one of the loafers in front of the saloon to fix the saddle. While a cowhand did that, Chance grabbed the saddlebags from his sorrel and shoved the Springfield in the bag that had contained his handcuffs. When it was buckled tight he secured the bags behind the saddle on the gray stallion. Next, he withdrew a Winchester carbine from the scabbard, and tossed it to the cowboy who had saddled the horse. “Payment,” he said.
“Thanks,” the cowhand said. “But them stirrups might be a little long for your legs.”