West Texas Kill (25 page)

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Authors: Johnny D. Boggs

BOOK: West Texas Kill
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“He'll know that in a couple hours anyway,” Chance said, and heeled the side of the black mare. The horse exploded in a fast lope, kicking up dust, hooves pounding the desert floor. Don Melitón Benton followed on the piebald McGee had picked out for himself, and Moses Albavera fell in behind Benton on a sure-footed Appaloosa. McGee watched them in the predawn light until they disappeared over a ridge, then, grumbling like a child who had been rebuked by his parents, kicking stones with the toes of his boots, he walked back to the cab of the hissing locomotive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Flickering light from the candelabra on the adobe wall reflected in the glass Hec Savage raised to the candles. He held it there for a moment studying the liquid, then brought the drink to his lips, satisfied. “Old man Benton makes mighty fine peach brandy, don't you think, Grace?”
Across the cherry-wood table, Grace Profit shrugged. Her glass remained in front of her, untouched.
Smiling, Savage finished his drink, and fetched a gold watch from his vest pocket. He rose, walked to the keg, and refilled his glass, draining it before he walked back to the table, and stood behind her. He reached over her shoulder, and laid his empty glass beside her full one, then brought his hand back, and rested it on her right shoulder. His left hand fell on her other shoulder, and he began squeezing. Grace stiffened.
“You should relax,” he told her.
“You should get your damned hands off me.”
Savage chuckled. “Would you prefer that greaser Lo Grande's?” He released her shoulders, and slid on the table so that he faced her. She looked quite lovely. Of course, the room at La Oveja wasn't well lit, and the shadows hid her blemishes. Not that she wasn't a handsome woman. More than handsome, actually, and a woman who could take care of herself.
He picked up her glass. “I think this tastes better than that bust-head you serve, Grace.”
“The men I serve aren't interested in taste. My whiskey gets them drunk. That's what they want.”
“But you should want more.”
She stared ahead at the wall. Savage reached down, lifted and turned her head with two fingers underneath her chin. “Remember,” he said, “our little conversation on the ride over here? I could buy you a new saloon. A fancy one, with fine drinks.”
He left his hand on her face, but Grace reached over and removed it. Savage could see the candlelight flickering in her pupils, like a rattlesnake's tongue. Like a serpent's diamond eyes.
He dropped his hand back to his side. “What would you say if I told you I was about to come into the sum of a quarter of a million dollars?”
“You plan on selling your kingdom of Savage to Germany?”
“No.”
“England?”
He shook his head. “The Southern Pacific is bringing it.”
“I thought you only wanted a hundred thousand from the railroad.”
He laughed again.
“The U.S. Mint needs gold to make its coins. Gold's often shipped to New York, you know. They take the bullion, sell it on the gold market for greenbacks. There's two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in bullion due to stop in Murphyville for water and a new crew on its way east.”
Her lips parted, closed. She shook her head. “You'll never get away with that,” she said after digesting what he'd told her.
“Who's to stop me?” He began rolling a cigarette. “By now the Army's loping down to Fort Leaton. They'll get there, surround the fort, and prepare for a siege. Only there's no one to talk to. Nobody's left inside that fort, but it'll take those stupid damnyankees a day or two before they figure that out.”
“What about those hostages?” Grace asked, though she knew the answer.
“You know me, Grace. I'm no good with prisoners. When the Army finally storms through the gates, they'll find the late Mayor Childress and Congressman Hendry in the stockade.”
She swallowed. “And Father de la Vega?”
He shook his head. “And if they look hard enough, they might find Captain Bookbinder and what's left of his bluebellies at La Mota Mountain.”
“You're sick.”
“No, I'm Savage.” He laughed, and lit his cigarette. “Meanwhile, Austin's scrambling. I bet Colonel Thomas doesn't know what the hell's going on. He thinks he has a Ranger captain gone loco, but he can't communicate with anyone west of Sanderson. He'll try to organize a force, but he won't be able to get anyone to Presidio County until Tuesday or Wednesday. They'll be heading west, and we'll pass each other, like ships sailing across the dark seas, because I'll be riding east. By the time he figures it out, I'll be in Mexico.”
She laughed. “For that much money, the Army won't be stopped by any border.”
“They'll go through channels, though. First, they'll contact the Rurales at Ojinaga. Then the Rurales at San Pedro.” He took a long pull on the cigarette, and blew out smoke through his nostrils. “Alas, the Rurales in both villages are now under the command of Juan Lo Grande.”
Grace reached for the glass of brandy, before remembering that Savage had polished it off. She leaned back, considering Savage again.
“Impressed, eh?”
“Repulsed.”
He blew smoke in her face, but she didn't react.
“You'll never get away with it, Hec.”
“Who's to stop me? By now, your friend Dave Chance is dead.”
It was Grace Profit who laughed, a warm, musical sound, that caused Savage to straighten. “Dave? Dead?” Her head shook. “I don't think so, Hec.”
Savage flicked the cigarette across the room, showering the adobe wall with sparks. Apparently, she had touched a nerve. She kept at it. “Besides, how do you plan to transport that much gold to Mexico? It's eighty, ninety miles to the border, and, like you said, those bluebellies won't be fooled at Fort Leaton forever. You'll never be able to cross the border at Presidio.”
He smiled again. “Who said anything about Presidio? I said east, remember. We're just gonna ride those rails all the way to Sanderson.”
A pretty good plan, Savage had always thought. They'd take over the train at Murphyville, and keep that bullion on the S.P.—all the way to Sanderson. They'd leave the train there, in that big warehouse on the sidetrack. Out of view when that westbound came barreling through to reach Murphyville or Marathon. They'd load the bullion onto wagons, and head south to the Rio Grande. The border was a hell of a lot closer from Sanderson than it was from Murphyville, and they wouldn't have to worry about running into any Army patrols in case those yankees he'd sent to Fort Leaton got smarter. They wouldn't have to worry about running into Juan Lo Grande's bandits, either.
Savage grabbed the two glasses off the table and returned to the keg.
Lo Grande had ruined that, of course. He and his men were supposed to stay put in Ojinaga, get to the sheep farm after Savage and his men had robbed the train. By the time Lo Grande had figured out he had been double-crossed, Savage and his men would be headed down the Rio Grande, on the Mexican side, of course, to Matamoros, where they'd board a ship in that port city and sail to Argentina. A quarter of a million dollars would go a long way in Buenos Aires. For that much money, he could tolerate living with a bunch of ignorant greasers.
But Savage would have to figure out another plan. Lo Grande had brought twenty-six men with him. Savage had only eleven, fourteen when Taw Cutter, Eliot Thompson, and Bucky Bragg returned. Still, he wasn't worried. Lo Grande's men were nothing but a bunch of dirty bean-eaters, and he'd yet to meet ten damned Mexicans equal to one of Savage's Rangers.
He filled both glasses with brandy, and walked back to the table, offering Grace a drink, which, this time, she accepted. He slid onto the chair across from her.
Her eyes were mesmerizing. He started to say something, when he heard a noise. His right hand darted to one of the revolvers on his hips, and he sat up, staring at the doorway. Juan Lo Grande, smoking a cigar, one arm wrapped around the neck of the disheveled whore from Terlingua, another on the butt of one of his fancy Colts, grinned. He brought his hand up over Linda Kincaid's face, and removed his cigar, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. His right had remained on the revolver.
“Amigo, is it not about time for us to leave for Murphyville?”
How long has he been standing outside that door?
Savage wondered, but his face showed no alarm. Besides, what had he told Grace that Lo Grande, or that damned whore, could have overheard? Nothing important, and it didn't really matter. Lo Grande's presence had forced him to start thinking of a new plan anyway. He'd have to get rid of Lo Grande somehow.
Permanently.
Savage brought out his watch again, released the cover, read the time, snapped it shut, and dropped it back into his pocket. “We got some time yet.”
Waving the cigar at Savage, Lo Grande said, “But not as long as you would have Juan Lo Grande think. Is that not right, mi amigo?” He returned the cigar to his mouth, catching Linda Kincaid's throat in the crook of his arm. She looked too battered to know anything.
When Savage's lips flattened, Lo Grande's grin widened, and kept stretching. He almost doubled over, laughing so hard, pulling Linda Kincaid down with him. He straightened, shoved the prostitute away, and pointed the cigar at Grace Profit.
“
Señorita
, el capitán, he tries to fool Juan Lo Grande, no? He tells Juan Lo Grande that the train is coming to Murphyville on Sunday. That is what everybody is saying. Those politicians, those law dogs, those Army officers, they are
muy
smart.” He paused long enough to return the cigar to his mouth, and sucked on it, but it had gone out. He tossed it to the floor, and walked to the keg of brandy.
“But the train, all that gold, it is due to come to Murphyville on Saturday.” There were no glasses, so he knelt under the keg, turned the spigot, and let brandy splash into his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing. His thirst slaked, he turned off the spigot, and pulled himself up, wiping the excess brandy off his face.
“El capitán, he must think Juan Lo Grande is a fool. He must have forgotten that it was me”—he tapped his chest—“Juan Lo Grande, who let him know about the gold being shipped. It was my idea. My plan.” The smile began to fade. “If not for Juan Lo Grande, Capitán Savage would be sitting on his hindquarters in that presidio on the Rio Bravo dreaming about one day catching Juan Lo Grande.”
“Juan Lo Grande,” Savage said, “seems to have forgotten that I received orders from Austin about that trainload of gold. I knew about it.”
Clucking his tongue, wagging his finger, Juan Lo Grande shook his head. “No, no, señor. You may have known about the shipment, but not how much gold was on board. And you never would have dreamed about stealing it.” He sighed. “And now, he tries to fool Juan Lo Grande. Tries to take all that gold—too much for one man to spend, too much for even fourteen
rinches
—for himself, and leave old Juan Lo Grande and his
muchachos
to remain poor, humble
bandidos
.”
He hooked his thumbs in his sash. “‘
E tu, Brute.
'”
A noise startled both Lo Grande and Savage, and they turned toward the doorway, had their revolvers halfway out, before stopping the draws.
“Easy there, boys,” Doc Shaw drawled as he stepped into the light, the High Wall rifle nestled under the crook of his left arm. “You both are mighty touchy.”
Something was different about Shaw. Grace realized that his hat was gone, replaced by a railroader's cap. He brought his right hand up and tugged on an imaginary cord, then let out a loud, “Whoooooooo. Whooo. Whoo. Whooooooooo!” He broke out laughing, and said, “All aboard.”
Grace Profit killed the brandy, and set the empty glass on the chair. Linda Kincaid stood in the corner, absently twirling her bangs on one finger, her eyes vacant.
“It's about that time, gents,” Shaw said.
“We got some time,” Savage said again.
“What if the train's early?” Shaw asked.
Savage frowned. Lo Grande clapped his hands. “You have a good man there,
rinche
. I like the way he thinks.” He tapped his temple. “
Muy
intelligent. Takes no chances. He might ride for me someday.”
“All right.” Savage eased his .44 into the holster. “Let's go.”
“
Bueno
. I will cut this
puta
's throat and we shall ride.”
“No.” Savage's command came out like a bullet.
Lo Grande turned. Grace's fingers balled into fists.
“Amigo,” Lo Grande said. “It is—”
“Don't quote your Shakespeare, Lo Grande. It ain't right.”
“What? That I quote Shakespeare? He was a brilliant writer, my friend.”
“That's not what I mean.” Though, Savage thought, it wasn't right for Juan Lo Grande, a damned Mexican, to be quoting an English writer, a white man. He pointed at the Terlingua whore. “You leave her be. You're not harming a woman.”
“We cannot leave her here.”
“Where's she going? She'll stay here.”
“But—”

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