West Texas Kill Read Online Free PDF Page B

who grinned and sat with his legs outstretched, his hat still on, and the Andalusian a few rods behind him. Chance’s own horse also had not run.
    â€œRanger?” a cowboy asked from the doorway. “Is it all right if we go fetch our horses? The ramrod at the Backward-C-Lazy-Seven won’t take kindly if we come home afoot.”
    â€œGo ahead.” Chance’s eyes never left Albavera. “Just walk behind my prisoner.”
    A half-dozen cowhands, soldiers, muleskinners, saloon girls, and the woman gambler named Lottie stepped outside. All but the cowboys stayed close to the saloon.
    â€œYou’re a good shot, Ranger,” Albavera said. He pointed at the Springfield. “You do that on purpose?”
    Chance shook his head. “I was aiming for your gut.”
    Albavera’s smile widened. “I figured.” He shook his head again. “Well, I guess I’m your prisoner.”
    Chance never lowered the .32. He watched as Albavera brushed the dirt off his hands on his outstretched pant legs, on the sleeves of his linen duster, then wiped them on the front of his vest. Chance started toward him, heard a cough, shot a glance at the saloon front, then looked back to Albavera. “Damn.”
    Moses Albavera had fished an over-under .41-caliber Remington derringer from his vest pocket. He fired once, the bullet tearing off Chance’s hat as he ducked. Quickly, Chance cut loose, knowing he missed, as he dived to the ground. He rolled, came up, and saw Albavera rounding the corner of the saloon. Chance held his shot.
    Someone in front of the saloon whistled with appreciation.
    Chance’s revolver was a five-shot, but he always kept the chamber under the hammer empty. He had fired three times, leaving him with one round. Fishing out a few extra shells from his vest pocket, he quickly reloaded the top-break .32, giving him five shots to Albavera’s one round left in the double-shot Remington.
    Unless, he realized, Albavera had reloaded the derringer.
    He walked back to the water trough and picked up the Springfield in his left hand. The sawed-off rifle appeared to be in working condition. His slug had only splintered the forearm a bit. Stepping toward the saloon, he pulled back the hammer of the big gun. He tried to think.
    The two-story saloon lay in pretty much open country, with some outhouses behind it, and a few adobe structures off to the north. More buildings lay south, before Chihuahua, but Albavera would be in open country if he made his run that way. Behind the saloon there was nothing but open prairie for a good three hundred yards, then a barbed-wire fence that would offer no cover. Beyond that rose a mountain, but the mountain was treeless. If Albavera went that way, he’d be a sitting duck.
    Chance decided Albavera’s only shot at escape lay right by the saloon. He’d want to get that Andalusian, if he could; if not, then one of the horses that hadn’t spooked. He’d make his escape then. First, however, he’d have to kill Dave Chance.
    â€œReckon you got a choice, Ranger,” a burly black man said, grinning a toothless smile. “Which corner of this building you wanna stick your head around. Which corner won’t get your head blowed clean off.”
    Chance pointed the barrel of the sawed-off Springfield at the man’s big belly. “Anybody here shouts a warning,” he said calmly, “I’ll kill him.” He looked at Lottie. “Or her.” He pushed his way past the crowd, and entered the saloon.
    The beer-jerker behind the bar scowled at him as Chance made his way to the poker table. He couldn’t blame him. Nobody in the saloon was ordering anything to drink, and the roulette wheel, faro layouts, and poker table were empty. Underneath the table, he found his gunbelt. He buckled it on, checked the Schofield, and headed for the stairs, feeling he had enough firepower to handle Moses Albavera.
    All eyes were