Free West Texas Kill by Johnny D. Boggs Page B

She needed to finish making that whiskey while Horatius fed the railroad men.
    The swamp-root she served at Profit’s House was her own blend. Grain alcohol aged in a porcelain-lined preserving kettle for ten days with burnt sugar and two tablespoons of iodine, colored with four five-cent plugs of Star Navy Chewing Tobacco, then poured through a milk strainer to cut down on the number of tobacco flakes a patron might swallow, and blended with water from the three-hundred-foot-deep well behind the depot. Two parts whiskey, one part water.
    You had to do it that way, she reasoned. Anyone who drank that wretched water straight was bound to get really sick, maybe die.
    She shed the coat. A couple of cast iron stoves kept the tent quite warm. Hanging from posts and from a hemp rope beneath the canvas top, coal oil-burning lanterns kept the saloon well lit.
    Horatius served mutton to the railroaders, while Grace mixed the whiskey and water, funneling the finished product into brown clay jugs, which, when full, she corked and set on the mesquite table behind the bar. The front canvas flap opened, and two men walked inside, one of them escorting the woman to a table, the other headed straight for the bar. Before he was halfway across the room, the flap parted again, and the third man entered, slapping dust off his hat. Apparently, he had finished whatever business he had at the depot. He looked around before taking a seat across from the woman.
    Leaning against the bar, the newcomer rubbed a gloved hand across heavy beard stubble, and set his derby hat on the bar. Grace picked up a relatively clean tumbler, a fresh jug, and walked to him. She poured a shot and slid it in front of him.
    A badge cut from a peso was pinned on the bib of his red shirt.
    â€œOn the house, Ranger.”
    The man looked up. “Thanks.” He downed the shot, and his eyes immediately watered. “Maybe.” He coughed. “Maybe I thanked you too soon.”
    Grace smiled, and refilled his tumbler.
    He didn’t look like a Texas Ranger. Too old. Too bald. He wore plaid trousers, a red bib-front shirt, a yellow bandana, well-worn brown boots, and old Spurs. A russet gunbelt with a Colt holstered butt forward hung on his left hip. He wore eyeglasses that highlighted his brown eyes, but Grace figured he needed the glasses to see both near and far. She only needed hers to read.
    â€œI’ve met some Rangers up here,” Grace said, tucking a strand of blond hair back underneath her silk bandana. “Captain Savage,” she said, trying to conceal her bitterness. “Dave Chance. Wes Smith. But I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of your company.”
    â€œReckon not, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve been north of the Chalk Mountains since I was posted to Captain Savage’s battalion two years back. Name’s Wickes, ma’am. Ray Wickes. I’m a lieutenant with Company E. Based down at Fort Leaton near Presidio.”
    â€œGrace Profit,” she told him.
    â€œPleasure.” He lifted the glass, but merely wet his lips with the potent brew. “I know Dave Chance. He’s a good man. You haven’t heard from him of late by chance?”
    She shook her head. “Why?”
    â€œHe went after a man-killer named Albavera. The darky killed Prince Benton down in Shafter.”
    She’d had the displeasure of meeting Prince Benton two or three times. She’d shed no tears over his passing.
    â€œBut I’m afraid I’m bearing bad news, Missus Profit”—he sipped the whiskey again—“about Wes Smith.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I regret to inform you that he’s dead. Got killed when Captain Savage attacked Lo Grande’s camp. That’s why we come here. To Marathon.”
    That saddened her. She had met Wes Smith only once, but he had seemed a nice lad. Too young, really, to be a Ranger.
    The lieutenant pointed to the woman and