Read Online West Texas Kill by Johnny D. Boggs - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œI have no quarrel with you, Ranger.”
    â€œI’ve none with you, Don. Not yet.”
    â€œYou say there is a hundred dollar reward for this man in Galveston?”
    â€œI didn’t say it.” Chance’s chin pointed toward Albavera. “He did.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    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.
    â€œWhat is it you wish us to do?” spoke the middle-aged vaquero who had carried the saddlebags full of gold.
    â€œI want you to get the hell out of here,” Chance said. “Ride back to Cibolo Creek, I’ll take—”
    â€œÂ¡Imbécil!” 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.”
    â€œSí, 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,