West Texas Kill (7 page)
Authors: Johnny D. Boggs
“He's wanted, Captain.”
Six Rangers under Savage's command were too damned honest. Two of those were dead. Savage had concocted a plan to get rid of the other four, but Dave Chance had to light out after some fool Negro man-killer.
“He might be posted for another killing, Captain,” Ray Wickes was saying. “I heard this Albavera fellow shot Prince Benton dead a few days ago up in Shafter.”
Savage studied Wickes for a full minute, letting the words soak in, then burst out laughing. As he filled his tumbler with more rye, he said, “Well, hell, that'll do, I reckon. If that darky doesn't kill Chance, Don Melitón surely will.”
CHAPTER SIX
Moses Albavera suggested, “You might want to give me a gun.”
Said Dave Chance, “I don't think so.”
“Not even to protect myself from two dozen armed men?”
“That's my job.”
Albavera swore, then spit.
The good sign was that Don Melitón Benton raised his right hand as he neared Chance and his prisoner, and the twenty-five vaqueros riding behind him reined in their lathered mounts. The bad sign was that the old man held a side hammer Allen & Wheelock pistol. On the other hand, that weapon was a single-shot, and Chance had always figured it would take something more powerful than a .22 to kill him. Of course, each of Don Melitón's vaqueros wore a brace of Navy Colts in their sashes, apparently all converted to centerfire, and carried Spencer carbines in their saddle scabbards. More than enough to finish off Chance and Albavera.
Chance studied the Schofield revolver as if it were a toy gun, and holstered it, putting his left hand on the saddle's cantle and hooking his left leg over the horn. He waited for the don to approach.
Nobody truly knew where Don Melitón Benton hailed from. Despite his dressâopen-sided, concho-studded britches favored by Spanish noblemen,
calzoneras
they were called, and a suede jacket trimmed in red velvet with elaborate embroideryâhe wasn't Mexican. An elegant mustache and neatly trimmed goatee, pure white, accented the bronzed face underneath a flat-crowned black hat secured underneath his chin by a horsehair braided stampede string.
calzoneras
they were called, and a suede jacket trimmed in red velvet with elaborate embroideryâhe wasn't Mexican. An elegant mustache and neatly trimmed goatee, pure white, accented the bronzed face underneath a flat-crowned black hat secured underneath his chin by a horsehair braided stampede string.
Throughout West Texas and northern Chihuahua, stories were told that as a much younger man, he had fled MissouriâChance always liked to believe the one that had Don Melitón, or Milton, as he had been called in earlier days, killing a man in a duel over a lady from Independenceâinto Mexico, where he had worked as a muleskinner for a freighting outfit that ran from Meoqui to Ojinaga. By 1850, Milton Benton had married the daughter of a flour mill magnate in Meoqui, and taken over the freighting outfit. By 1855, he had expanded his runs to the Chihuahua and Santa Fe trails. Five years later, Benton left Meoqui with his wife, Francisca, and carved out a
rancho
in Texas's Chinati Mountains, some twenty-five miles north of the RÃo Grande. He bought land. Many stories said he learned the location of abundant springs from the Apaches.
rancho
in Texas's Chinati Mountains, some twenty-five miles north of the RÃo Grande. He bought land. Many stories said he learned the location of abundant springs from the Apaches.
His
rancho
along Cibolo Creek was more fortress than home, a hundred-square-foot adobe citadel with circular defense towers at the northern and southern corners in which visitors would always find armed guards. Other ranches he established in the Big Bend country were equally well protected.
rancho
along Cibolo Creek was more fortress than home, a hundred-square-foot adobe citadel with circular defense towers at the northern and southern corners in which visitors would always find armed guards. Other ranches he established in the Big Bend country were equally well protected.
His wife gave birth to a son, and Milton carved a kingdom in that patch of desert, trading at his
rancho
, raising longhorn cattle and sheep. Fruits grown in his orchards tasted spectacular, and nobody ever passed the chance to sample his peach brandy. By the end of the Civil War, nobody knew him as Milton Benton anymore. He was Don Melitón.
rancho
, raising longhorn cattle and sheep. Fruits grown in his orchards tasted spectacular, and nobody ever passed the chance to sample his peach brandy. By the end of the Civil War, nobody knew him as Milton Benton anymore. He was Don Melitón.
His accent hadn't changed, though. It remained pure Missouri.
“Reckon I'll take that b'hoy off your hands, pilgrim,” he said.
“Reckon you won't, Don Melitón,” Chance said.
“You know me?”
“I was at your
rancho
on Cibolo Creek this year, Independence Day, sir. Remember? You invited all of Captain Savage's Rangers from Fort Leaton.” After shoving his mackinaw behind the butt of the Schofield, Chance tapped the badge pinned to his vest.
rancho
on Cibolo Creek this year, Independence Day, sir. Remember? You invited all of Captain Savage's Rangers from Fort Leaton.” After shoving his mackinaw behind the butt of the Schofield, Chance tapped the badge pinned to his vest.
“You won't be invited back next Fourth of July. You son-of-a-bitchin' Rangers drank four kegs of peach brandy, another of pure Kentucky bourbon, and took two bottles of Manhattan rye.”
“Yes, sir. It was quite the fandango. Captain Savage still has one bottle of the rye. Had, at least, last time I was down Presidio way.”
“I want him.” The old man pointed the barrel of the pistol at Albavera, but the .22 hadn't been cocked.
Yet.
“So does the county sheriff in Galveston.”
“Galveston!” The old man practically spit.
“Yes, sir. He murdered a couple of brothersâ”
Albavera interrupted, “It was a fair fight.”
Chance kept onâ“in a saloon there in the summer of '77. I'm bringing him in.”
“For a reward, I take it,” Don Melitón said.
“I don't know that there is a reward, sir.”
“There is,” Albavera said. “A hundred dollars.”
“Not much money for a couple of brothers,” Chance said.
“They weren't exactly pillars of the community,” Albavera said.
“Shut your traps,” Don Melitón snapped. “I don't care how many brothers this man killed in Galveston, or how many men he killed anywhere else. He killed my son. For that, I shall kill him.”
Chance switched legs over the horn, stretched, and shook his head. “Don, sir, I don't think you'd have any trouble getting the attorney general to give Presidio County first crack at trying Moses Albavera. And knowing the folks out here, they'd have him swinging in a hurry.”
“That's a sure bet,” Albavera muttered.
Chance wished that big bastard would shut up.
“I'd prefer killing him myself,” the don said.
“I don't blame you. But he gets a fair trial.”
Albavera snorted with contempt.
“My wife has been dead ten years,” the old man said. “I'm not long for this world. I'd planned on leaving my empire to Prince. That man has taken away not only my son's life, but my legacy.”
Albavera cried, “You were going to leave your fortune to that tinhorn? What he wouldn't have squandered away, he would have gambled away. You're better off alone, old man. Give your empire back to the poor bastards you stole it from. The Mexicans. The Apaches. Hell, give it to those brave riders you got backing your play. Give it to the great state of Texas.”
Chance wouldn't bet on who was getting angrier with each word his prisoner spoke, the don or himself.
“Let me tell you about your son, old man,” Albavera continued. “We were playing poker at Diego's Cantina in Shafter. He was losing. I was winning. This Mexican lady comes in off the street selling tamales. I bought one. He took one. I paid her. She asked your boy for some money. He took a bite, spit it out, told her it was terrible, and shoved the rest of the tamale in her face. Shoved real hard, too. She hit the floor, and I hit him. I admit, I hit your son harder than he hit the woman. He got up cussing me, calling me a âswamp-running SOB,' and I hit him again. Told him my family was Moors. I'm right proud of my heritage. He drew his revolver. I kicked it out of his hand and hit him again. Then I helped the lady up, gave her a dollar, and sent her on her way. I gathered my winnings, and started for the door. That's when I heard the revolver cock. I ducked, drew Miss Vickie, and spun. Your son's shot tugged at the collar of my coat.” He tilted his head to the left, and Chance saw a hole in the buckskin coat's collar. “Mine hit him in the chest.”
Chance let his leg down from the horn. His boots found the stirrups. His right hand found the butt of the Schofield.
“That's how it was, pardners,” Albavera said. “You ask anybody in Shafter who was at Diego's Cantina, and they'll tell you that's what happened. Anyone who won't lie for you, Don Melitón.”
Knowing Prince Benton, Chance believed Albavera's story, and, from the look on the old man's face, so did the don. Yet Chance knew the powerful merchant and rancher would not bend. The don looked again at Chance.
“I have no quarrel with you, Ranger.”
“I've none with you, Don. Not yet.”
“You say there is a hundred dollar reward for this man in Galveston?”
“I didn't say it.” Chance's chin pointed toward Albavera. “He did.”
“I will pay you five hundred dollars. In gold.”
Chance pushed up the brim of his hat. “When?”
The old man turned, barked an order, and one of the vaqueros rode up, reached into his saddlebag, pulled out two leather pouches, and tossed them into the dirt between the gray Andalusian and the sorrel gelding. The coins clinked when the pouches hit the dirt. Someone still standing in front of the saloon whistled. The vaquero backed his horse away from the don.
Chance studied the two pouches, looked at Don Melitón, then turned to Albavera. Taking a deep breath, he slowly exhaled, and sighed, shrugging at Albavera before he looked back at the old man. Chance reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a key, and tossed it to the dirt. “He's yours.” Sliding from the Andalusian, he walked toward the money pouches.
“You greedy bastard,” Albavera said.
Dismounting, Don Melitón barked an order at his riders, then walked toward the handcuffed prisoner, the single-shot pistol still in his hand, still uncocked. As Chance bent to pick up the gold pouches, the don swept up the key in his left hand without breaking stride. The old man made a beeline for the prisoner, never considering Chance, never seeing one of the pouches sail from Chance's hand until it was too late. The sack slammed into the don's crotch. Gasping, he dropped the side-hammer .22, grabbed his balls, and sank toward the dirt.
Chance drew the Smith & Wesson from his back, caught Don Melitón, turned him around, and pressed the barrel underneath the don's chin. “Move and I'll blow his head off!” Chance roared to the vaqueros.
Probably not,
he thought.
Not with a .32, but Don Melitón would be dead, sure enough.
he thought.
Not with a .32, but Don Melitón would be dead, sure enough.
Of course, so would Dave Chance and Moses Albavera after those vaqueros were finished. At least half of them had drawn Navy Colts or Spencer carbines. Those weapons were cocked and trained on Chance, but they'd have to shoot through their boss to kill him.
“What is it you wish us to do?” spoke the middle-aged vaquero who had carried the saddlebags full of gold.
“I want you to get the hell out of here,” Chance said. “Ride back to Cibolo Creek, I'll takeâ”
“¡Imbécil!”
the vaquero shouted, and Chance realized the question had been directed at Don Melitón.
the vaquero shouted, and Chance realized the question had been directed at Don Melitón.
The proud old man tried to straighten. Chance pressed the barrel deeper into the don's flesh, his finger tightening on the trigger. Don Melitón spoke in a voice muffled by pain, “Do as he says, Godofredo.”
“SÃ,
patrón
.” Disappointed, the vaquero shoved the Navy into his yellow sash, tugged on the reins, and led the other riders away from the two-story saloon. They turned south, and loped away.
patrón
.” Disappointed, the vaquero shoved the Navy into his yellow sash, tugged on the reins, and led the other riders away from the two-story saloon. They turned south, and loped away.
From the doorway of the saloon, the woman gambler named Lottie said, “You got grit, mister.”
“He's a damned fool,” Moses Albavera said. “Did it ever occur to you, Ranger, that this old don might have just shot me out of the saddle before you could try to castrate him? Did it?”
“No.” The Smith & Wesson felt like a cannon in his hand. He lowered the barrel, released his hold on Don Melitón, and shoved the the .32 behind his back. “It didn't.”
The old man sank to his knees. Bent over, his hands on the ground, in terrible pain, he didn't utter a sound.
Chance picked up the single-shot .22, returned to the don, and helped the old man to his horse, a palomino with a good dosage of Arabian blood. He boosted the man into the saddleâDon Melitón hunched low, gripping the horn instead of the reinsâbefore mounting the Andalusian.
“Let's go,” he told Albavera.
“Which way?”
“Just to the Sender Brothers store.”
“Don't know where it is, Ranger. You best lead the way.”
“You lead,” Chance said. “I'll tell you which way to go.”
Albavera grinned. “You don't miss much, do you?”
“Not much.”
The black man kicked the sorrel into a walk.
Thirty minutes later, Chance's saddlebags were filled with beef jerky, salt pork, a sack of Arbuckles' Ariosa Coffee, four airtights of peaches and one of condensed milk, not to mention extra ammunition for the arsenal he now carried, all paid for from a gold coin in one of Don Melitón's pouches. He figured the don owed him. Besides, Austin rarely paid his expenses in a timely fashion.
He left the old man tied to a chair in the back of the mercantile, ordered the clerk working the store to leave the don there for two hours before turning him loose.
Like hell
, Chance thought.
A powerful patrón like Don Melitón Benton
. If that weasel-faced clerk left the don tied up for ten minutes, Chance would be counting his blessings.
Like hell
, Chance thought.
A powerful patrón like Don Melitón Benton
. If that weasel-faced clerk left the don tied up for ten minutes, Chance would be counting his blessings.
“All right, sir,” Chance whispered into the don's ear. “If it had been my son killed, I'd likely feel as you do.” He tapped the badge. “But I'm paid to uphold the law, and the law wants Moses Albavera in Galveston. I'm asking you to let the law handle it. Do like I say. You've got more pull than those Marin brothers ever had in Galveston. You can bring Albavera to trial here, and you know, as well as I do, that he'll hang.” He wanted to say, but didn't,
No matter if your boy got what he deserved.
“I'm just doing my job. I'm leaving you here, and taking Albavera to El Paso. I'll turn him over to the deputy U.S. marshal there. Maybe you can buy a federal lawman. But you can't buy me.”
No matter if your boy got what he deserved.
“I'm just doing my job. I'm leaving you here, and taking Albavera to El Paso. I'll turn him over to the deputy U.S. marshal there. Maybe you can buy a federal lawman. But you can't buy me.”
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