“Take an extra horse and ride relays,” said Stringfield. “Get this message to Dolan Watts at Nogales. Wait until he reads it, and if there’s a reply, get it back to me just as soon as you can.”
At Hermosillo, Burke Packer studied the strange telegram he had just received from Juarez. Packer accepted the warning as genuine, for the absence of any details told him far more than the brief message. Each of the outlaw chieftains had been warned never to use the telegraph to transmit potentially dangerous messages that might fall into enemy hands. Packer wasted no time in assembling his dozen men.
“Until further notice,” said the outlaw chieftain, “I want two of you on watch, day and night. Splittin’ it up, that’s six four-hour watches. There’ll be no smokin’ after dark.”
“What’n hell’s the idee?” one of the outlaws demanded. “They ain’t nobody in two hunnert miles but Mexicans, an’ we got ’em convinced we’re all first cousin to el Diablo.”
Some of his companions laughed, but it quickly dribbled away to silence, for the grim look on Burke Packer’s face didn’t change.
“With all of us standin’ watch,” said another of the outlaws, ”we ain’t gonna be sendin’ our quota of horses to Nogales.”
“No matter,” Packer said. “I don’t know what the danger is, but it’s real enough for Juarez to send me a warning telegram. It came from Rance Stringfield, and if it’s strong enough to spook him, he’ll be getting word to Nogales. All I can tell you is that we’re to be prepared for an attack.”
Hermosillo, Mexico. July 16, 1884
Wes and El Lobo had dismounted and were resting the horses a few miles east of the town. It was time to decide what their first move would be.
“What do you know about Hermosillo?” Wes asked.
“It is near the water, and the sailing ship come there,” said EI Lobo.
“It’s near the ocean?”
“It not be the ocean,” El Lobo said. “It be a finger of water that reach far inland, to the north of Sonora.”12
“While I was in El Paso,” said Wes, “the Sandlin gang was mostly robbing banks and stages, and rustlingcattle and horses on both sides of the border. From what I’ve heard, Mexico is a poor country. With no banks to rob, and with the border too far north for the rustling of cows and horses, what are these outlaws doing in towns like Hermosillo and farther south?”
“Por Dios,” El Lobo said, “the robbing of banks and the rustling are as honest work when one knows of the evil these sons of el Diablo have visited on the villages of Mexico and its people. When there is no money, horses, or cows to steal, these Sandlin bandidos steal the young señoritas and sell them into a life of slavery, as putas.”
“With water to the east and west, that’s where the sailing ships come in,” said Wes. “You’re telling me that the Sandlin gang’s involved in the selling of women into slavery to become prostitutes. I can take it from there. They’re stealing Mexican señoritas and taking them far from their homes, and stealing white señoritas—probably from the United States—and selling them in Mexico.”
“Sí,” El Lobo said. “That, and per’ap worse.”
“It can’t get much worse,” said Wes. “What else?”
“The Diablo medicina,” El Lobo said. “It is like the peyote of the Indios, and it is used by the medicos, but it steals the mind. It comes from a flower and is smuggled out of Mexico.”
“Opium,” said Wes. “It’s used in laudanum, and I brought two bottles of that with me. But you’re right. Pure opium is dangerous, and before it eventually kills, it can and does steal the mind. I’ve heard that men and women sold into slavery were first forced to use opium until they couldn’t escape from it. Do you know if men are sold as slaves?”
“Sí,” El Lobo said, “but not so much as the señoritas. Somewhere in Mexico there is a silver mine. Those hombres who dig are Americano and Mejicano.”
“Do you know who controls this mine? Is it the outlaws or the Mexican government?”
“I do not know,” said El Lobo.
“We’ll add that to the list of things we’re unsure of,” Wes said. “Before we ride into Hermosillo, we’d better find us a place to secure our supplies and the packhorse.”
“Sí,” El Lobo agreed. “A place we can stand off many hombres with guns who wish to kill us.”
“That, too,” said Wes. “We’ll be reachin’ a point—if we haven’t already—where they will be expectin’ us, and we’ll be ridin’ for our lives. Before leavin’ our supplies behind, I reckon we’d better fill our saddlebags with as much ammunition and food as we can. When we’re pursued, we might be a while workin’ our way back to our supplies, or we may not be able to return to them at all.”
“Sí,” El Lobo said.
After several hours of searching, they were forced to conceal their supplies and the packhorse in a thicket near a small stream.
“Not worth a damn for defense, if we’re on the run,” said Wes, “but there’s graze and water for the horse. We’ll just have to take our chances, and if there’s pursuit, we’ll keep ridin’, comin’ back here if and when we can.”
Unsure as to what awaited them, they rode toward Hermosillo.
Chapter 5
Hermosillo was strikingly different from Chihuahua, its proximity to the ocean evident by the presence of many seagoing men. Nor did the Mexican populace dress in peons’ clothing. There were well-dressed Mexican men, some accompanied by señoritas of some elegance. There were even a few single women on the street, and many of the men carried revolvers on their hips.
“We are not so different from the others, amigo,” El Lobo said.
“We have an edge, then,” said Wes, “unless they’ve been told what happened in Chihuahua and Namiquipa.”
Suddenly Wes reined up. Ahead of them, hanging out over the boardwalk, was a vivid green sign with fancy gold lettering that said EL ORO CASA. In a circle was the head of the golden dragon.
“It is the image of the outlaws,” El Lobo said. “Casa of the puta.”
“A whorehouse,” said Wes, “with the damn dragon at the front of it.”
“They are powerful in Mexico,” El Lobo said. “They do not have to hide.”
“Stay with the horses,” said Wes. “I’m goin’ in there and see what I can learn.”
El Lobo said nothing. Wes didn’t see Empty. While the hound had accepted El Lobo, he didn’t care for Mexican villages. The house looked somewhat forbidding, for curtains had been drawn. The image of the dragon out front had given Wes an idea. Quickly he dug into his pocket for a handful of gold coins, sorting through them until he found one of the medallions with the dragon’s head. He pounded on the door, and when he had all but given up, the door opened. A hard-eyed Mexican woman looked at him as though trying to recall his face. He extended his hand, palm up, and when she saw the medallion with its dragon’s head, she seemed to relax.
“Sí,” she said, stepping aside so that he might enter.
Wes stepped inside, offering her no money. He dropped the medallion back into his pocket. The madam looked at him questioningly, and he realized she was waiting for him to make known his wants.
“A señorita,” Wes said.
The woman nodded, and he followed her down a long hall. While he had taken a risk, he had learned something. The same medallion that had almost gotten him killed in the cantina in Chihuahua had gotten him into a Sandlin-controlled whorehouse in Hermosillo. The madam had accepted him as one of the gang, and here he might establish the truth of what El Lobo had told him about the Sandlin gang’s involvement in white slavery. Without bothering to knock, his host opened a door and bade him enter. A young girl with golden hair lay on a bed. She was covered with a sheet and said nothing. Her eyes were cold and without expression. The door closed behind Wes, and he was alone with the girl. Suddenly she flung back the sheet, and he wasn’t surprised to find her naked beneath it.
“Get out of your clothes,” she said without emotion, “and
do what you came to do.”
“I only want to talk to you, to ask you some questions,” said Wes. “Who are you, where are you from, and how did you get here?”
“I’m doing what I want to do,” she said.
“I don’t believe that,” said Wes.
“I don’t care a damn what you believe or don’t believe,” she hissed. “They send you here, I talk to you, then they come and beat me. I have nothing to say. Now get out!”
Another moment and she would have been screaming. Wes opened the door, stepped out into the hall, and made his way toward the door through which he had entered. There was no sign of the madam who had admitted him. He eased the front door open until he could see El Lobo and the horses across the street. Quickly, Wes crossed.
El Lobo laughed. “You rapido, amigo.”
“Nothin’ but talk,” Wes said, “and I didn’t learn much. I used the dragon medallion to get in, and I was taken to a girl who is American, so you’re dead right about the white slavery. But she told me nothing, except that she is beaten when she talks. She thought I’d been sent by the Sandlin gang to trick her into talking, and that she would be beaten.”
“Now what we do?” El Lobo asked.
“I learned that the Sandlin gang comes here, evidently without charge,” said Wes. “I reckon if we stake out this dragon-head whorehouse, sooner or later some of the gang will come here.”
“How do we know them?”
“We don’t,” Wes said, “We’ll have to judge by the look of them. Except for the outlaws, what kind of men are likely to come here?”
“Per’ap the rich Mejicano,” said El Lobo.
“You stay here,” Wes said, “and I’ll go up the street a ways, where I can still see the door. We’ll keep enough distance between us so that if one of us arouses suspicion, it won’t involve the other.”
Remaining on the same side of the street; Wes moved well away from El Lobo. There was open ground for a few yards, and several oaks had grown large enough to afford some shade. Wes left his grulla beneath one, while he sat down with his back to the other. He tipped his hat low over his eyes so that it might appear that he slept, while actually he was able to see all the way to the front of the whorehouse and beyond. But their vigil went unrewarded, and at dusk the same woman who had admitted Wes stepped out and lit a bracket lamp on each side of the door. In the gathering darkness, Empty made his way to Wes, concealing himself in the shadow of the trees. Wes shared his jerked beef with the hound, and the vigil continued. During the course of the evening, only three men entered the bordello, and in business dress; none of them had the look of outlaws. Finally, in the legitimate shops, lamps were extinguished and doors were locked. Eventually El Lobo came down the street leading his horse.
“I know those varmints have been to that house before,” Wes said, “because I got in with one of those dragon-head coins. But where are they today?”
“Per’ap in the cantinas,” El Lobo said.
“This town’s considerably more tame than Chihuahua,” said Wes. “Maybe we can have us a beer without a gunfight. Let’s try that place over there with the rooster on the front door.”
There were only a few patrons in the cantina, and with only four hanging lamps, there was little or no chance of recognition. El Lobo ordered beer for himself and Wes, and they took their mugs to a table in the corner.
‘“Tarnation,” Wes said, “this is the strongest beer I ever laid tongue to.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “Drink, and then we go.”
Wes could only agree. Of the few men in the cantina, not one had the look of the outlaws they were seeking. They departed the cantina and were passing El Oro Casa when there was a scream of mortal terror from within the whorehouse.
“Come on,” Wes said.
He slammed open the front door, El Lobo behind him. Lead tore into the doorframe and in the dimly lit parlor Wes fired at the muzzle flash. A second man fired, and a slug from El Lobo’s Colt struck his gun hand. Dropping the weapon, he ran down the long, dark hall.
“It is him!” the madam screeched. “It is him!”
El Lobo caught her around the throat with his left arm and clubbed her unconscious with his Colt.
“Madre de Dios,” said El Lobo, “others come.”
The girl with the golden hair lay facedown on the floor, and when Wes rolled her over, he found her thin gown drenched with blood. It was the same girl he had spoken to earlier, and her throat had been slit. Her dead eyes looked into his, and he got to his feet.
“See what I find on the dead hombre,” El Lobo said, extending his open palm.
In the dim glow from a single lamp was a familiar golden medallion with it’s dragon’s head.
“One of the varmints got away,” Wes said. “We’d better run for it.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “Per’ap we follow him.”
They stepped out the door just as the dazed madam sat up, rubbing her head. Almost immediately she began screeching, and as Wes and El Lobo ran for their horses, there was the sound of many voices. Empty was with the horses, growling a warning as the voices grew louder. Wes and El Lobo mounted on the run and were soon galloping away into the darkness.
At the outlaw camp, Wicks and Tobin were on watch when they heard a horse coming on the run. It was late, but others had heard it, too, and Burke Packer stepped out the door, waiting.
“Rein up,” Wicks shouted, “and identify yourself.”
“Rowden, damn it,” came a voice from the darkness. “Vesper’s dead, an’ I’m hurt.”
“Come on,” Packer growled.
Rowden dismounted, and in the lamplight from the open door they could see blood dripping from the fingers of his right hand. Quickly he related what had happened.
“Two of ’em” said Suggs, “an’ they outgunned you an’ Vesper?”
“They took us by surprise,” Rowden said defensively. “Vesper got off the first shot an’ missed. The first hombre nailed him, an’ the second one got me. I didn’t see him for more’n a second, an’ I swear to God I never seen him pull a gun. He was sudden as chain lightnin’, an’ he ruint my hand.”
“Damn you and Vesper for a pair of fools,” said Packer. “It’s them two killers that Stringfield warned us about.”
“That’s what me an’ Vesper thought when the madam told us this hombre had talked to the whore,” Rowden said. “We was forcin’ her to talk, an’ she got away from us.”
“So you allowed her to reach the parlor and scream her head off before you silenced her,” Packer said.
“We didn’t think—”
“You sure as hell didn’t,” said Packer. “Them two hombres staked out the whorehouse until you two showed up. You played right into their hands. Now the damn constable will be asking questions.”
“Tell him the two gunmen busted into the whorehouse an’ killed the woman,” Rowden said. “Then when Vesper an’ me went after ’em, they kilt Vesper an’ wounded me.”
“You shot the whore, then,” said Packer.
“Uh ... no ...” Rowden said uneasily. “We used our knives, tryin’ to make her talk.”
“Rowden,” said Packer, in a dangerous tone, “this constable may be Mejicano, but he’s no fool. Two gunmen busted in, shot you and Vesper, and were gone within seconds. They wouldn’t have had time to torture the woman with their knives, would they?”
“I reckon not,” Rowden said with a sigh. “What can we do?”
“Come first light,” said Packer, “we’ll ride circles around Hermosillo until we find some sign of the varmints that done the shootin’. For now, I want you to tell me everything about them you can remember.”
“I will,” Rowden said, “but can’t I have my wound took care of first?”
“Suggs,” said Packer, “put some water on to boil. When it’s ready, you and Yokum see to Rowden’s wound.”
Wes and El Lobo didn’t speak until they reached the thicket in which they had hidden the packhorse and th
eir supplies.
“They will trail us, amigo,” El Lobo said.
“We have until first light,” said Wes, “and it won’t be easy, finding a place to conceal the packhorse and our supplies in the dark. They’ll be trailing us, but we’ll know which way they’ll be coming. I reckon they’ll be expecting an ambush, and we won’t disappoint them.”
Nogales, Mexico. July 17, 1884
Dolan Watts had read the lengthy message from Rance Stringfield many times, and he read it again, considering Stringfield’s suggestion. Finally he sent for Skull Rudabaugh, his most trusted lieutenant.
“Read this, Skull,” Watts said, handing him the letter.
Rudabaugh read it and returned it, waiting for Watts to speak.
“If this is as much a threat as Stringfield thinks it is,” said Watts, “then every one of our outposts—including Mexico City—should know of it. I am considering sending a copy of this by sailing ship to each of our outposts along the coast, with a request that each of these outposts sends riders inland with the same information. What do you think?”
“I think it’d be easier and quicker to send every outpost a telegram,” Rudabaugh said, “but Mexico City would raise hell and kick a chunk under it. I reckon you want me to do some ridin’. El Desemboque?”
“Yes,” said Watts, “just as soon as I can make copies of Stringfield’s letter. I’ll send copies to San Felipe, Catavina, Santa Rosalia, and Guaymas. It’ll be their responsibility to contact other outposts to the south.”
“What about Hermosillo?”
“They may have been next in line after Namiquipa,” Watts said, “and unless Stringfield sent a rider to warn them, it’ll be too late.”
“After delivering your messages to El Desemboque, I could ride to Hermosillo and see if anything’s happened there,” said Rudabaugh.
For a moment, Watts said nothing, thinking. Then he made up his mind.
“Do that, Skull. I’m sticking my neck out, following up on Stringfield’s suspicions. I’d like to know how real this threat is before I get into it any deeper. We have ships sailing from California with fancy cargo, and this is no time for trouble at any of our outposts along the coast.”
The Border Empire Page 8
