“Come on, boy,” Wes implored. “The packsaddle won’t hurt you.”
Wes rode well beyond the border before turning west, careful to avoid the Rio Grande lest he encounter soldiers or sentries for outlaw bands. He had traveled only a few miles when he saw smoke ahead. He reined up, and the hound sat down, an inquiring look on his face.
“Empty,” said Wes, “it’s mighty early in the day for a cook fire.”
On impulse, Wes pointed to the distant smoke, and to his total surprise, Empty took a few steps in that direction. He looked back, as though uncertain, and again Wes pointed to the smoke. Reassured, Empty disappeared in the brush. Wes took the opportunity to rest the grulla and the bay, wondering how Empty—if he had gone to investigate the smoke—would convey his findings. He soon learned. Empty trotted within a few paces of Wes and paused. There was that sound—somewhere between a bark and a growl—and he turned back the way he had come. Wes mounted his horse and, leading the packhorse, followed. Occasionally, Empty waited until Wes caught up, and then went on. The clearing was just large enough to accommodate a small cabin, a shed, and a pole corral. Beneath the shake roof of the shed stood a mule, and when it sighted the two horses, the animal began braying a noisy welcome. Smoke trailed up from the cabin’s stick-and-mud chimney. From behind the cabin a Mexican emerged. Apparently he was unarmed.
“Buenos dias, señor.”
“Buenos dias,” Wes responded. “En paz.”
“Si,” said the Mexican. “I am Pancho Gomez. It is only Maria and me. We wish no one harm.”
“Nor do I,” Wes said. “I am Wes Stone.”
“Bienvenido,” said Gomez. “We are poor, señor. There is pulque and goat’s milk.”
“Señor Gomez,” Wes said, “there’s coffee in my pack, and I’ll share it with you and Maria.”
Maria’s curiosity had gotten the best of her, and she stood in the doorway, her dark eyes on Wes. When she spoke, there was something akin to awe in her voice.
“Pancho, it is the compañero of the Senor King Fisher, but more the niño.”
Gomez removed his wide-brim straw hat and took a closer look at Wes.
“Madre de Dios,” he breathed, taking a step backward.
“My father, Nathan Stone, was a compañero to King Fisher,” said Wes.
“Espectro,” Gomez said, still unconvinced.
“The niño of the Senor Stone,” said Maria.
“Sí,” Wes replied, pursuing his advantage. “The Señor King Fisher is muerto. So is my father, Nathan Stone.”
Gomez crossed himself, removed his sombrero, and bowed. Wes dismounted, looping the reins of both horses around a pole that supported the cabin’s stoop roof. Removing an extra two-pound bag of coffee beans from his saddlebag, he presented them to Maria.
“Gracias,” said Maria.
All the furnishings within the cabin were crude and handmade, but the interior was meticulously clean. Maria stirred up the fire within the stove. She wrapped a handful of the coffee beans in a clean cloth and began crushing them with a wooden mallet. Gomez nodded toward the kitchen table. Wes drew out a chair and sat down, Gomez taking a seat across from him.
“Señor Gomez,” said Wes, “what can you tell me about my father, Nathan Stone?”
“He come with the Senor King Fisher to hunt the wild horse,” Gomez replied. “Per’ap you come to hunt the wild ones, also?”3
“No,” said Wes. “I seek the bandidos who murdered my father, Nathan Stone. They steal and kill both north and south of the border. You have heard of the Sandlin gang?”
“Dios!” Gomez said fearfully. “Por Dios!”
“You know of them, then,” said Wes.
“They are everywhere, señor,” Gomez replied. “The very walls of the cantinas are the eyes and the ears of these sons of el Diablo.”
“I know them, Señor Gomez, and they know me,” said Wes. “They have put a price on my head. I am riding to Namiquipa, where I have heard they may be found.”
“Sí,” Gomez replied. “They are there, in Ciudad Juarez ; Chihuahua, Hermosillo—”
“And Mexico City,” said Wes.
The coffee was ready, and when Maria placed the tin cups on the table, her eyes met those of Pancho. The look of fear that passed between them wasn’t lost on Wes.
“I have talk too much, senor,” Gomez said hastily.
“Your words will go no farther than my ears, Señor Gomez,” said Wes.
But they were afraid. Gomez gripped the edge of the table with his hands to stay their trembling. Maria peered out the kitchen’s single window as though she expected the devil and all his minions to appear at any moment. Wes downed his coffee at a single gulp and stood up. He spoke to the old Mejicano and his wife as kindly as he could.
“For your hospitality and for telling me of my father,” said Wes, “gracias.”
Wes made his way out of the humble cabin and mounted his horse.
“Vaya con Dios, Senor Stone,” Gomez said from the doorway.
Wes lifted his hand in farewell and rode away. Having waited in the brush, Empty soon caught up to him, and they traveled westward. What Gomez had told him had come as no surprise. The man’s obvious fear at the very mention of Mexico City said more than words could have. Wes recalled the legend that had arisen around Frank and Jesse James. Outlaws and killers, the very land through which they had ridden abounded with friends who had willingly hidden them from the law. But the James boys hadn’t been able to buy the law, and that had proven their undoing. The Sandlin gang, however, had stacked the deck in the most diabolical manner possible. Empty ranged ahead, and Wes felt better for having the hound with him.
Wes chose a spring with good cover. There he built his almost smokeless supper fire, dousing it well before dark. He moved well away from the spring, spreading his bedroll near where his horses were picketed. While Empty would warn of any approaching danger, the grazing horses were an added precaution. An unfamiliar sound caused a grazing horse to raise its head, listening. To a trained ear, the absence of the munch-munch-munch of a grazing horse was as eloquent as a shouted warning. Wes slept, awakened once by the cry of a distant coyote. He waited until good daylight before lighting his breakfast fire, and then built it beneath a tree so that the leaves would dissipate the smoke. After breakfast, he saddled the grulla, loaded the packsaddle on the bay, and rode west. Ahead, he knew not how far, Wes could see a mountain range that seemed to run the length of the land, from north to south.4
“Empty,” said Wes, as they approached a stream, “it’s time for rest.”
Troublesome though it was, when Wes stopped to rest the horses, he removed the packsaddle from the bay and unsaddled the grulla, allowing the animals to roll. It might soon become a luxury neither horse would enjoy, when Wes was forced to ride for his life, but he would allow them their simple pleasure while he could. He estimated that in a day and a half, he had ridden well over a hundred miles. He had no idea how far he was from Chihuahua or what he would do once he arrived, but it was a place to begin. Continuing to ride west, his keen eyes caught a series of black specks against the blue of the sky. The specks soon took shape, as they spiraled downward. Buzzards!
“Empty,” Wes said, “something or somebody’s had a bad day.”
As Wes rode nearer, he could see wisps of dirty gray against the sky. Smoke, from more than a single fire. Again, this time unbidden, Empty forged ahead. He returned, and this time there was no approving grunt. He whined, distressed. It was enough for Wes to dismount, leaving his horses among concealing trees and brush. He continued on foot, his hand near the butt of his Colt. He came upon the clearing suddenly. Where once a house and small barn had stood, there was only smoldering ruins. But the charred remainsof the buildings were only a small part of the tragedy. The Mexican couple—probably man and wife—lay facedown a few feet apart. Both had been shot in the back, not once, but many times, long enough ago for the pooled blood to have dried. But Empty had found something more. He w
hined once before trotting off among the trees to the west of where the house and barn had stood. Not knowing what to expect, Wes followed. On what might have been a door from the burned house, a young girl—maybe a year or two older than Wes—had been spread-eagled. Her ankles and wrists had been bound with rawhide, and she was stark naked. Taking the knife from his boot, Wes hastened to cut her bonds. First he freed her ankles, and the moment he loosed her hands, she came at him in a kicking, clawing fury. In her brown eyes was a look of madness, and her strength was such that she dragged Wes to the ground. She fought him for the knife, with every intention of gutting him if she got her hands on it. Wes fought his right arm free and drove a fist into her jaw. It stunned her long enough for him to get to his feet and return the knife to its sheath inside his boot. Finally she sat up and looked at him.
“Do you speak English?” Wes asked.
“Yes,” she hissed, “but I hate it and the gringos.”
“I freed you,” said Wes, “and I had nothing to do with what happened here.”
The sun was warm, but she began trembling, as though with a chill. Huge tears rolled down her cheeks, and she spoke through clenched teeth.
“They use me, defile me,” she said bitterly. “I swear, by the horns of el Diablo, they will be sorry they do not kill me. I will find them, and they will die.”
“Do you know the men who did this?” Wes asked.
“Bandidos,” she said. “Seven of them. They have many horses. They demand food we do not have.”
“So they murdered your parents,” said Wes.
“Before my eyes,” she said, the tears increasing.
“I’ll think of some way of burying them,” said Wes, “but first I must find you some clothing.”
“No,” she said, “it does not matter. They take everything but my life. Let us do the burying, before the busardos come. Even more terrible than their dying was having the busardos take them, while I am helpless and can do nothing.”
Wes had known his share of women, but he suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious in the presence of this naked female who just didn’t seem to care.
“Come on,” he said. “You can wait with the horses while I figure out some way to bury your dead.”
She came willingly, and Wes led her away from and around the clearing, so that she wouldn’t have to see the dead bodies. Empty growled as they approached the horses, not trusting this stranger.
“You’ll be safe here with my horses and my dog,” said Wes. “You might as well know my name. I’m Wes Stone. Who are you?”
“Maria Elena Armijo,” the girl said.
“Wait for me here, Maria,” said Wes.
Beyond the remains of the cabin, much of the land had eroded, leaving deep gullies. One of them became the grave of the girl’s parents. Wes placed them side by side and caved in the banks of the gully. They should have had better, he reflected, but without a shovel, it was the best he could do. Suddenly Wes was startled by the frantic barking of Empty, followed by the patter of departing hoofbeats.
Chapter 1
The grulla was gone. Swiftly Wes removed the packsaddle from the bay, mounted the animal, and lit out in pursuit. He was guided by Empty’s barking, and he soon caught up, for the hound had headed the horse. The confused grulla was galloping in a circle, and Wes, galloping the bay alongside, seized the grulla’s reins. But again the girl’s eyes blazed with insane fury, and she flung herself at Wes, shrieking and clawing. They tumbled to the ground in an ignominous tangle of arms and legs. Thoroughly angry now, Wes managed to slam a right to her jaw, and she went limp. From his saddlebag he took a pair of yard-long rawhide thongs. With one, he bound her ankles, and with the other, her wrists. He then slung her, belly-down, over the packhorse. Riderless, the grulla stood with the reins dragging. Empty kept his distance, regarding the horse with suspicion, until Wes was in the saddle.
“Empty,” said Wes, “how did I ever get along without you?”
By the time Wes rode back to claim his packsaddle, the troublesome girl had come to her senses. Wes slid her off the bay and sat her down with her back against a pine. She regarded him in silence, and he found himself facing a dilemma. What was he going to do with her? He began with a question.
“While I was burying your kin, why did you take my horse?”
“I go after the bastardos who ruin me,” she said.
“Naked, without food or weapons?”
All the defiance leaked out of her, and her eyes couldn’t meet his. Clinging to her was dirt and bits of leaves, and she seemed pitifully thin. Wes couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, because it seemed she was concealing her grief behind her hatred for the outlaws who had brought her world to an end.
“If I turn you loose,” Wes said, “do I have your promise that you won’t do anything foolish, such as stealing my horse or scratching my eyes out?”
“You have my promise,” she said, and this time her eyes met his.
Wes removed the rawhide, freeing her hands and ankles. She sat there, her back to the pine, watching him. Wes spoke.
“What am I to do with you?”
“You have been kind to me,” she said, “and you may do anything you wish.”
“Damn it,” said Wes, “I don’t want your body.”
“I cannot fault you for that,” she said bitterly. “It has been violated by perros.”5
“You are not the first to be violated,” said Wes, “and I think no less of you. First, we will go to the spring, so that you may wash yourself.”
She said nothing and, taking her hands, he helped her to her feet. She went ahead, and leading the horses, he followed. There was a runoff from the spring, the water flowing over some large stones. She seated herself on one of them. From his saddlebag, Wes took a small square of soap and presented it to her. When she seemed at a loss as to what to do with it, Wes took it and soaped her thigh. Getting the idea, she took the soap and finished her bath. She then slipped into deeper water and, submerging her body, washed her hair. Finally, dripping, she stepped out on the grass.
“Let the sun dry you,” said Wes, “and I’ll find something for you to wear.”
He had two changes of clothes in his saddlebag. While they were only denim shirts and Levi’s trousers, they would have to do.
“Get into these,” Wes said. “I reckon they won’t fit very well, but you can’t go anywhere naked.”
“Where I be going?” she asked.
“With me,” said Wes. “I can’t leave you here.”
Wes almost laughed when she donned the shirt and Levi’s, for they swallowed her. In the front of the shirt, she held her own, but the sleeves covered her hands. The legs of the Levi’s extended well over her feet.
“Gracioso,” she said, looking at herself. “El tonto.”
“No,” said Wes, “you don’t look funny, and you don’t look the fool. Here, I’ll roll up the sleeves of the shirt and the legs of the Levi’s. Until you can do better, you’ll get by.”
She still viewed herself with some amusement, but with shirtsleeves and the legs of the Levi’s rolled up, she could manage.
“Where you take me?” she asked.
“Where do you want to go?” Wes asked. “Do you have kin?”
“I wish only to find the perros who kill my padre and my madre,” she said.
“How are you to do that?” Wes asked. “Had you ever seen any of those men before?”
“No,” she replied. “I hear them speak of Chihuahua. While they are taking their turns with me, one of them laugh and say I am something they do not share with Sandlin.”
“Sandlin,” said Wes. “Maria, are you sure of that name?”
“I am sure,” she insisted. “I can do nothing else, so I listen.”
“We’re goin’ to trail that bunch,” said Wes. “I have plans for them.”
“For why do you want them?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” Wes said. “Let’s just say for now, I have as many reasons fo
r wanting them dead as you do.”
Wes lifted her up on the withers of the grulla and mounted behind her. The bunch had made no effort to conceal their trail. It led west, and there were tracks of at least twenty horses, all of them shod.
“They have steal many horses,” said Maria.
“Yes,” Wes said. “These will be driven across the border and sold in Texas. How long had they been gone when I found you?”
The Border Empire Page 2
