“The bastard’s on the roof!” one of the outlaws shouted.
But Wes reached the roof, and the shouting below had the desired effect. Men joined their comrades below the smashed window. By the time Wes had crept to the very end of the gabled roof, he was able to step down to the roof that sheltered a back porch. Empty was still barking from a distance, which told Wes one or more of the outlaws had stayed with the horses. The hound either saw or sensed Wes at the roof’s edge and came surging in, growling viciously. Startled, the outlaw who had remained with the horses began firing, but only got off one shot. Colt in hand, Wes came down astraddle him, clubbing him unconscious. In an instant, Wes was in the saddle, kicking the grulla into a gallop. His Colt in his right hand, he seized the bay’s lead rope in his left. The black nickered, but with Maria gone, there was no need for it. The outlaws rounded the comer of the house and began firing. Wes fired only twice, for he hadn’t had time to reload and his Colt was empty. He holstered the weapon and rode for his life.
“Damn it,” said Wooten, chief of the outlaws, “he’s gone.”
“That ain’t the worst of it,” said one of his companions. “Klady, Snell, an’ Hutchinson is dead, an’ Tasby’s hard hit.”
“Anybody else hurt?” Wooten asked.
The Indian gunman, El Lobo, laughed.
“What’s so damned funny?” Wooten demanded.
“Do not forget Zouks and Wroe, who die in the cantina,” said El Lobo. “One of them by the hand of a Mejicano squaw.”
“Kazman will have to be told of this,” Wooten said. “He’ll want to know just how in hell this slippery varmint managed to escape from a house and gun down three men, while ten of you failed to get a slug in him.”
“Eleven of us,” said one of the outlaws angrily. “You was here with us.”
“El Lobo,” Wooten said, “I want you on this hombre’s trail at first light. Choose who you want ridin’ with you.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “I take Wanz, Votaw, Selmer, Eagan, Coe, and Mull.”
“Damn,” Votaw said, “why you takin’ all of us?”
Again El Lobo laughed. “Sencillio. While this muy bueno hombre is killing all of you, per’ap I have the chance to kill him.”
“Wooten,” said Eagan, “you aim to send seven men after one slippery gun-thrower?”
“If that’s how many El Lobo needs,” Wooten said. “He’s segundo to this manhunt.”
“I ain’t takin’ orders from no damn half-breed Indian,” Selmer said. “By God, he was here tonight, an’ I didn’t see him firin’ them twin cannons of his.”
“I do not fire at shadows,” said El Lobo contemptuously. “You ride with me, gringo, you do as I tell you.”
“And if I don’t?” Selmer said.
“I kill you,” said El Lobo softly.
“Wooten,” Coe said, “I’m with Selmer. I ain’t ridin’ with this cold-blooded bastard.”
It was Wooten’s turn to laugh. “It’s up to you, El Lobo. Change his mind.”
Like greased lightning, the Indian seized the front of Coe’s shirt, standing him on tiptoe. Like magic, the muzzle of his right-hand Colt was under the frightened Coe’s chin.
“Señor,” El Lobo hissed, “you come with me manaña, or you die tonight.”
“I ... I’ll go,” said Coe.
Without another word, the Indian released Coe. He then faced Selmer, the starlight glinting off the Colt in his hand.
“I ain’t likin’ it,” Selmer said sullenly, “but I’ll go.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Wooten, “Unless the rest of you got complaints. just take ’em up with El Lobo.”
None of the other outlaws said anything, but when they mounted their horses, Coe rode alongside Selmer, well behind El Lobo.
“The half-breed bastard,” Coe hissed. “It’ll likely be a long trail. That varmint might just damn well stop a slug that don’t come from the hombre we’re gunnin’ for.”
“Just what I’m thinkin’,” said Selmer. “We got no Mejicanos in our bunch, so why we got to stomach a mouthy half-breed Injun?”
Wes reined up in the hills north of town and satisfied himself there was no pursuit. He expected none until the dawn, and then he had no doubt they would be coming after him. If he continued to run, his vow of vengeance meant nothing, and his riding into Mexico would have been in vain. He must attack, forcing them to come for him, and when they did, show them no mercy.
“Empty,” he said, “my time as a Mejicano is done.”
From his pack he took the cowboy clothes and the flat-crowned Stetson he had placed there only hours ago. He thought of poor dead Maria and how thoroughly she had applied the stain that would soon be gone. He removed the sombrero, his gunbelt, and his boots. He then discarded the poorly woven Mexican clothing. Again wearing his own Stetson, his Levi’s, and denim shirt, he felt better. He stomped his feet back into his boots, and as he was about to buckle his gunbelt, he thought of something. From the packsaddle, he took the buscadera rig—a gunbelt with twin holsters—that had belonged to Nathan Stone. He then took from the pack Nathan’s second Colt, the one Maria had used to gun down four of the Sandlin gang. With a kind of reverence, He belted Nathan’s rig around his own lean middle and placed one of the well-used colts in each of the holsters. Empty watched the procedure as though thoroughly familiar with it, perking up his ears when Wes spoke to him as Nathan Stone so often had.
“Old son, I hope I can become just half the man he was.”
Already he had trained himself to draw and fire with either hand, and with the gunbelt riding low on his hips, he thonged down the holsters. He then practiced drawing, first one Colt and then the other, border-shifting them hand to hand. Finally, exhausted, he lay his head on his saddle and looked at the twinkling stars, silver pools in their faraway meadow of velvet. He thought of Nathan, of Maria, of the task that lay ahead. He even recalled the long ago days at the orphanage in St. Louis, and felt more alone than at any other time in his life....
Chihuahua, Mexico. July 5, 1884
“Saddle up and ride,” Wooten ordered, “and don’t come back until you’ve caught up to the varmint that got away from us last night. I want his head in a sack.”
Wanz, Votaw, Selmer, Eagan, Coe, and Mull mounted their horses. El Lobo was the last to mount, and he eyed his companions with obvious amusement. He led out, the others following. Selmer and Coe exchanged looks and then fixed their hate-filled eyes on the back of El Lobo.
Chapter 3
Even before it was light enough for his pursuers to take the trail, Wes had saddled the grulla, loaded the packhorse, and was on the move. He must conceal the packsaddle, for if his plans went awry and he was forced to ride for his life, the last thing he needed was a loaded packhorse on a lead rope. Reaching a small stream, he followed it into an arroyo with a huge promontory of stone at the far end. Water cascaded down the face of the rock, and Wes scrambled to the top. Looking down, he found the stone face behind the falling water wasn’t solid, but concave. Taking food enough for himself and Empty, Wes wrestled the heavy packsaddle up the slope, concealing it behind the waterfall. Most of the surface over which he had climbed was stone, so he left no tracks. Returning to the pool at the bottom, he quickly built a small fire. There was no time for coffee, and some hastily broiled bacon became his and Empty’s breakfast. If the outlaws got that far, they would know only that he had cooked a meal and watered his horses. But he doubled back the way he had come, parallel to his earlier trail. Being one against many, he would resort to an ambush, and he began looking for a likely place. His was a hit-and-run situation, for he couldn’t remain in one position long enough for them to flank or surround him. While he would be on the run, his pursuers would be forced into a defensive role, for they had to contend with the constant threat of yet another ambush. In the foothills, he was unable to see the town, but a rising cloud of dust told him pursuit had begun.
“Empty,” said Wes, “they’ll be expectin’ a
n ambush, so we’ll have to choose the least likely place, if we’re to take ’em by surprise.”
Wes concealed both horses in a thicket, distant enough so they wouldn’t nicker and give away his position. He then made his way back to a rise up which he expected his pursuers to ride, for there was little cover. There was only a wind-blown tree, and most of it had rotted away. Behind what remained, Wes bellied down with his Winchester where he could see down the long slope. Without an order, Empty had remained with the horses, for he hadn’t forgotten similar situations he had faced with Nathan Stone. Wes could see the seven riders coming long before they were within rifle range. They were strung out in a V formation and there was something different about the point rider. While he didn’t ride quite like an American, neither did he seem Mexican. Whoever he was, he was the enemy, and Wes had the man in his sights. But the very second he fired, he knew he had missed, for a strange thing had happened. Within the ranks of the outlaws, revolvers roared, and the lead rider pitched forward out of the saddle. Wes didn’t question his good fortune, but began firing at the remaining outlaws. He quickly emptied three saddles, and while there was virtually no cover, the remaining three men piled off with their rifles. But Wes had a surprise for them. Slugs from his Winchester began kicking up dust beneath the hooves of the riderless horses, and they lit out in a fast gallop down the back trail. There was little doubt the spooked horses wouldn’t stop short of their home corral. His adversaries reduced to three and afoot, Wes used the deadly Winchester to put the fear of God into them. Slugs flung dirt and rock into their faces, and they scrambled down the slope, intent on escaping with their lives. Wes could have gunned them down to the last man, but there was more to be gained by allowing them to stumble back to town afoot. It would do much to create an aura of mystery around the elusive gringo who killed like a merciless devil. When the shooting was over, Empty trotted out of the brush.
“I reckon we’d better have a look at the dead hombres,” Wes said, “but it’s more than I can expect that some of ’em would be the murderin’ varmints from El Paso.”
Warily, Wes approached the fallen men. The rider who had been gunned down by his companions lay facedown. While he had been hit twice in the back, the wounds were high up, and he might be playing possum.
“You’re hard hit, amigo,” Wes said. “Can you speak?”
There was no response. The man lay unmoving. Wes tried again.
“I’ll help you if I can, but only if you do not resist.”
“I ... not resist,” said El Lobo.
Wes rolled him over, and the front of his shirt was bloody. The slugs had passed on through, and if they hadn’t nicked a lung, he had a chance.
“You need some doctorin’,” Wes said. “I have medicine, bandages, and whiskey in my pack. I’m going for the horses.”
While Wes had some misgivings about helping the wounded outlaw, the circumstances surrounding the shooting intrigued him. Why had the man’s companions shot him in the back? He wasn’t dark enough to be Mexican, and his facial features and eyes were those of an Indian. When Wes returned leading the horses, El Lobo had drawn his revolvers.
“Make up your mind,” said Wes. “If you’re just waitin’ for a chance to kill me, then I’ll ride on and leave you here to die. You know I didn’t shoot you. Your companeros were responsible for that.”
Slowly, raising his hands as high as he could, El Lobo released the revolvers, allowing them to fall to the ground. Wes took the weapons.
“I’m takin’ you where there’s water,” Wes said. “I’ll help you mount.”
But the bay shied at the smell of blood, and by the time Wes had calmed the horse, El Lobo’s eyes were closed. When Wes lifted him, he was a dead weight, and getting him belly-down across the bay horse was a fight. Wes was forced to ride alongside the bay, one hand gripping the wounded man’s belt, so he wouldn’t slide off. While they were only a few miles from the stream where the packsaddle was cached, it seemed much farther, for their progress was slow. Empty ran on ahead, while Wes kept a constant watch on his back trail. When they eventually reached the stream, Wes looked at the sun, estimating the time. It had been at least three hours since the gunfight, probably time enough for the trio of outlaws to reach town afoot. If they immediately mounted another force and came after him, his act of mercy toward this wounded outlaw could cost him his life.
“I don’t like the odds, Empty,” said Wes, “but I’ll finish what I’ve started.”
He built his fire small, put on a pot of water to boil, and went after the medicine and bandages in his pack. Finally, he removed El Lobo’s shirt. The man’s breathing was harsh and ragged. When the water began to boil, Wes cleansed the wounds front and back. He then folded lengths of cotton muslin into large square pads. One of them he placed over the wounds in the back, and the other over the exit wounds, just below the collarbone. He then drenched the pads with disinfectant. Suddenly the wounded man spoke.
“I come to kill you. Why you do this?”
“I’m not sure,” said Wes. “I was about to drop you when your companeros shot you from behind. I reckoned if that bunch of coyotes hated you that much, there might be some good in you.”
El Lobo’s laugh was bitter. “There is none, señor. I am as vile as they.”
“The señorita,” Wes said. “She was tortured with a cuchillo and then murdered. Tell me the name of the bastard responsible for that.”
“Wooten,” said El Lobo. “He segundo in Chihuahua.”
“Then I won’t be leavin’ Chihuahua until I settle with him,” Wes replied. “You’ll need some time to heal from your wounds. Do you know of a place we can hole up where that bunch can’t find us?”
“Sí. There are caves in the mountains to the north. El Lobo find. Rain come soon.”
It was true, just as Maria had predicted, for the sky had already begun to cloud over.
“We’d better ride, then,” said Wes, “because we’ll have to take it slow. We’ll be riding double, so the bay can carry the packsaddle. With any luck, the rain will wash out our tracks. But you’ll have to guide me, because I don’t know this country.”
“Sí. El Lobo know. El Lobo tough, lak hell.”
Wes noted with some relief that El Lobo was thinner, more wiry than he had at first appeared, so the grulla could bear the extra weight if they took their time. A little more than an hour into their journey, the rain came. Well before it ended, they had reached the cave El Lobo had in mind. It was roomy enough for the horses, there was water, and the entrance was concealed to the extent that it was lost to those who didn’t know that it was there. Previous visitors had left a supply of dry firewood.
“Indios come here,” El Lobo said.
“Thanks to the rain,” said Wes, “we should be safe enough here.”
A breath of cool air from the interior of the cave was proof enough of an escape for the smoke from a fire.
The Border Empire Page 5
