West Texas Kill

by Johnny D. Boggs

Genres: Westerns; Religious & Inspirational

Synopsis

Multiple Spur Award-winning author Johnny D. Boggs colorfully evokes the aura of the Old West. In West Texas Kill, the harsh lands between the Pecos River and the Rio Grande are ruled by renegade Texas Ranger Captain Hector Savage. Into this realm rides Ranger Dave Chance with a prisoner—a big-talking murderer—shackled to his side. An honest ranger, Sergeant Chance determines to deliver the locals from Savage’s bloody reign. But to succeed against such long odds, Chance must do the unthinkable—unshackle and arm his prisoner.

Release date: April 1, 2011

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Hell, the man on the gray horse decided, does get cold.

He had tied a blue woolen scarf over his hat and under his chin, bringing down the brim of his battered Stetson to keep his ears warm. Ice crystals had formed on his stiff mustache, his nose was red, lips chapped, and his lungs burned with every breath he took. Behind him, over the monotonous clopping of hooves came the sniffling of his men, the creaking of leather, the chimes of spurs. But no complaints. The sixteen men riding with him would not whine, would never turn back. He had heard the saying dozens of times before: The Rangers of Company E would ride through Hell for Captain Hector Savage.

Indeed, they had.

Hell. Mexico. He sniffed. Same damned thing.

Dead stems rising from century plants bent to the brutal wind as he led his men through rough, mountainous terrain, the ground frozen solid, the country so bleak that even the yucca plants looked worn out. No clouds. No threat of snow. As Doc Shaw had commented a few hours earlier, “Too cold to snow.” Nothing but a harsh November wind, making the twenty-degree afternoon feel a lot colder. Behind him, to the north, rose the ominous peaks of the Chisos Mountains. Also behind him lay the Río Grande.

The wool-lined collar of his heavy canvas coat had also been pulled up, although he had not bothered to button the coat. Despite the gloves, his fingers felt numb as he gripped the reins with his left hand, keeping his right near the ivory grip of one of the silver-plated Merwin Hulbert .44s holstered high on his waist.

His pale blue eyes scanned the country. For the past couple hours, he had not seen any other living animal, not even a javelina or a coyote, as the horses picked their way around clumps of bear grass, catclaw, and pesky prickly pear. That would change soon. The Guardia Rural would intercept them shortly. He was counting on it.

Twenty minutes later, as he led the Rangers into a widening valley, he spotted a flash in the distance—likely sunlight reflecting off a saber. He spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice as he tugged slightly on the reins, stopping the gray. Five more minutes passed before he saw the dust, and the band of Rurales came into view a few minutes later.

Behind him, he heard an ominous click.

“Nobody cocks or pulls a weapon,” Hector Savage said without turning around. A muttered sigh answered his order, followed by metallic sounds of a hammer being lowered on a Sharps, and the sliding of the rifle back into a saddle scabbard.

“Demitrio,” Savage said.

“Sí, Capitán.”

“Best tie that bandana of yours to the barrel of your rifle. Let these Rurales know we come in peace.”

“It is already done, mi capitán.”

Savage grinned. Half Irish, half greaser, Demitrio Ahern had been riding for the Rangers since Savage had formed his company more than a decade earlier, after the government in Austin had finally wised up, gotten rid of that insipid state police, and sent men onto the frontier to bring justice—often summary, by hemp or lead—to outlaws terrorizing much of Texas. Austin had formed companies of Rangers, called battalions, and sent them to various regions. Leander McNelly got the Nueces Strip, and much glory, before succumbing to consumption. Hector Savage left his ranch southeast of San Antonio for the sprawling expanse of nothingness west of the Pecos River. He hadn’t been east of that river since.

Without being ordered, Demitrio Ahern eased his horse out of line, and trotted to Savage’s right, a frayed cotton square, once solid brilliant white now faded and yellowed, popped in the wind from beneath the front sight of his .45-70 carbine. The stock was butted on his thigh against the worn leather chaps. He kept his gloved finger out of the trigger guard, but his thumb on the Sharps’s big hammer.

Savage could see the Rurales loping across the desert floor in columns of twos, led by a thin Mexican wearing a French-style kepi. He counted eleven men, but just to be certain, he asked Ahern how many men he saw.

“Once,” came the reply.

Satisfied, Savage straightened in the saddle, and pushed his heavy coat back behind the butt of the Merwin Hulbert on his right hip. “Reckon they left any up near that pass? To keep them covered?”

Ahern studied the terrain, then said, “No, mi capitán. They are too foolish. They believe this flag of truce will protect them.”

“Hell.” Savage spit again. “It will.” He raised his right hand, bit the dirty, oily leather above his fingers, and pulled off one glove, which he stuck in the pocket of his coat before returning his hand near the .44 revolver.

The Rurales reached them, and slowed their horses. The one in the kepi and two others rode forward, the rest remaining back, their horses nervously stomping, snorting, waiting.

The leader looked young, probably still in his early twenties, with a handsome, unblemished face. He wore a gray jacket trimmed in silver, blue-gray britches with deerskin on the insides of the thighs and buttocks for extra protection, a billowy, white shirt, and a red cravat. A gold crucifix hanging from a rawhide string bounced across his chest as he trotted forward on a black stallion, and he raised a gauntleted right hand. He carried no long gun, just a saber that clattered against his saddle, and a pistol holstered on his right hip, butt forward, covered with a leather flap. The flap, Savage noticed, was snapped closed.

The other Rurales looked more like the Mexican peace officers Savage was used to seeing—well-worn pants and jackets; bandoliers of ammunition draped over their chests, around their waists, and hanging from the saddle horns; revolvers stuck inside waistbands, or holstered on hips; knives sheathed in concho-studded belts; large sombreros pulled low on their heads. A few cradled old muskets—one carried an old fowling piece. Every one of them, except the young officer, appeared nervous, and looked like the damned bandits they’d likely been before forced into the police force, though not a one seemed cold.

“Buenas tardes,” the officer said after he reined in his stallion a couple rods in front of Savage. “Me llamo Jaime Bautista Moreno, teniente de los Rurales de San Pedro. Tu siervo, señores.”

“El gusto es mío,” Savage said, and the lieutenant smiled and bowed. Savage spit, then asked, “¿Habla usted Inglés?”

The immediate one to Lieutenant Moreno’s right answered. “I speak English, señores. You are norte-americanos, sí?” He was an old man, white hair underneath a battered sombrero, eyes suspicious, a few days growth of beard on his face and a mustache that, unlike the rest of his hair, had not turned completely white. His revolver was within easy reach, and his right hand never strayed far from the walnut butt.

With his left hand still gloved, Savage let the reins fall across the gelding’s neck. He gripped just beneath the lapel of his coat and pulled it back slightly, revealing the star cut into a circle made from a Mexican peso pinned to his vest. “We’re Texas Rangers.” He said it loud enough for the soldiers behind the lieutenant and his two segundos to hear, and took a little pride in the reaction he got.

“Los rinches,” came the nervous whisper. “Los rinches . . .”

The white-haired man began speaking to the lieutenant in Spanish. Savage couldn’t savvy most of it, figuring if the old man said something he needed to know Demitrio Ahern would tell him, but Savage could read the lieutenant’s young face. The Rurale straightened in his saddle, his black eyes never leaving Savage, and spoke in an urgent whisper.

The old Rurale turned back to Savage. “Teniente Moreno asks, ‘Why have you traveled into our poor country?’”

Poor is an understatement, Savage thought. He tugged the coat back over his vest, gathered the reins, and answered, “We were pursuing the bandit, Juan Lo Grande.”

“Lo Grande?” the old one asked, his face betraying him with a wry grin. “No se corta un pelo.”

“He ain’t a bit of a devil,” Savage snapped. “He’s el diablo himself.”

The white haired one translated. Lieutenant Moreno’s face hardened, his head bobbed slightly, and he sighed as he told the old man something.

Again, the white-haired one translated. “Teniente Moreno regrets to inform you that our presidente, Porfirio Díaz, would consider your presence on Mexican soil as an armed invasion. He must ask that you turn around and return to your own country. Leave Lo Grande to us.”

“We’ve been leaving him to you bean-eaters,” Savage said with bitterness. He took time to switch the chaw of tobacco to his other cheek, letting his temper cool. “Lo Grande’s men raided the quicksilver mines in Terlingua. Killed a couple miners, made off with a whore and the payroll. That’s an armed invasion, if you ask me. I’m Hec Savage.”

Even as the old one translated for the lieutenant, Savage heard the whispers among the other Rurales. He smiled, and kept talking, “We’ve been on Lo Grande’s trail for a couple days. I would be willing to put my men and myself under Lieutenant Moreno’s command. I think they call it a ‘joint punitive action.’ Between us, we could make Lo Grande pay for all the crimes he has committed on both sides of the border.”

He listened to the old one’s translation, saw an eagerness in Lieutenant Moreno’s eyes, but the young Rurale’s shoulders sagged, and he answered by shaking his head. Without waiting for the old one to speak, Savage said, “My understanding is that the Mex government and the muckety-mucks in Washington City have been allowing our damnyankee cavalry to pursue marauding Apaches across the Arizona border into Sonora. Makes sense to me, and maybe the government of Chihuahua, that we should be able to do the same thing. Lo Grande is worse than Geronimo and old Nana. At least in West Texas. And San Pedro.”

Again, the old one translated, and the young officer considered it. He wants to do it, Savage thought with amazement, but finally, Lieutenant Moreno’s head bowed, and shook. He spoke, and Savage listened to the translation.

“¡Ay de mí! Teniente Moreno apologizes, but there is a difference between the government of the United States and the government of Texas. Los rinches.”

Savage smiled an understanding smile.

“Teniente Moreno says that although he would accept your generosity and end Lo Grande’s reign of terror were it up to him, he is a soldier, and must follow orders. Con permiso, Capitán Savage, we will escort you and your soldados to the river and see that you reach Texas safely.”

Savage’s head bobbed, and he let out a weary sigh.”I figured as much. Worth taking a shot, though.” He turned around. “All right, men. These hombres will take us back to the Río Grande. They’ll protect us.”



Dusk was approaching when they reached the border. The lieutenant used his saber to cut through the brush, and spurred his stallion into the gurgling river. Hec Savage followed on his gray gelding. The river was shallow and muddy, but wide, maybe fifty yards across, and bitterly cold. Halfway across, Savage reined in the gray, reached into his vest pocket, and withdrew a handful of cigars. Most of the Rangers eased their horses to the Texas banks. Most of the Rurales had stayed on the Mexican shore.

The white-haired one and the lieutenant took the cigars, muttering their thanks. The old one put his away. Young Moreno sheathed the saber, bit off an end of the smoke, and waited for Savage to light it.

Like hell, Savage thought, I ain’t your manservant, boy.

But Demitrio Ahern eased his bay gelding near the lieutenant, struck a lucifer against his chaps, and fired up the cigar, before backing up his gelding a few rods. The bandana on the end of his rifle flapped in the wind.

Savage, who had spit out his quid of tobacco miles earlier, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and lit it with a match he had struck against the butt of one of his revolvers. The wind moaned through the trees and brush lining the riverbanks on both sides of the border. The bandana kept right on flapping in the biting wind.

“Demitrio,” Savage said when his cigar was finally smoking to his satisfaction. “I don’t reckon we need that flag of truce anymore.”

“But, of course, mi capitán,” Demitrio Ahern said. He removed the dirty piece of cotton, and while lowering the Sharps, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger, blowing the white-haired Rurale out of his saddle.

Spitting out the cigar, screaming something, Lieutenant Moreno reached first for his revolver, then, realizing the flap was shut, tried to draw his saber. By that time, Hec Savage had slipped from his saddle into ankle-deep water. Holding the reins in his left hand, using the gray as a shield, he drew one of the long-barrel .44s with his right and shot the stupid officer, seeing the white shirt explode crimson.

The big black horse wheeled, spilling Moreno into the water. As it bolted for the Mexican side of the river a bullet slammed into its head, killing it instantly.

“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 Río 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? ‘O 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.

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 gustaría 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 you—?” 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’—”

“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. . .