West Texas Kill Read Online Free PDF

grave.”
    He picked up the Springfield, tipped his hat at Lottie, smiled at Chance, and backed his way to the door.
    â€œWhy 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.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you?” Chance watched Albavera nod once more, turn and run.
    Chance was already sprinting, drawing the Smith & Wesson .32 from his back.
    â€œHooray!” called one of the white bettors at the bar.
    â€œWatch out, mister!” warned one of the old buffalo soldiers at the faro layout.
    â€œTen dollars says the colored boy gets away!” someone bet.
    â€œFive-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 building—the landlord had been too damned cheap to put up a boardwalk or porch—and 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.
    â€œHell’s bells!” a cowboy cried out, and busted through the door.
    â€œStay 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.
    â€œCrap!” came a yell from inside the saloon.
    Chance climbed to his feet, keeping the Smith & Wesson trained on the gunman,