West Texas Kill Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThe Marin brothers?” Now it was Albavera who looked surprised.
    Chance’s head bobbed.
    â€œHell, man, that was eight years ago.”
    â€œReckon so. But there’s no statute of limitations on a murder charge.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œRanger.” Albavera spoke in a tired voice. “I’ve no quarrel with you.”
    â€œGood. That’ll make our trip to Galveston much more pleasant.”
    â€œI don’t want to kill you.”
    The curiosity of the vaquero died. He rose slowly, and joined the crowd.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œOne 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.
    â€œDrop 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.
    â€œShoot 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.
    â€œNow, kick it under the table.”
    Chance did as he was instructed.
    â€œLadies, 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