Skull Rudabaugh nodded and departed, while Dolan Watts began preparing messages for delivery to the ship’s dock at El Desemboque.
The outlaws at Hermosillo were active well before first light. Rowden’s right hand was swollen and the bandage was stained with new blood. He had gained no favor with the rest of the outlaws and was sullenly nursing a tin cup of coffee.
“Dooley, Blake, Elkins, Mullins, and Hanson will ride with me,” said Packer. “The rest of you will stay here, keepin’ your eyes open and your guns handy. Tazlo, while I’m gone, you’re in charge. If the constable rides out here askin’ questions about last night, tell him he’ll have to talk to me.”
“What if he knows Rowden—”
“If anybody comes around asking questions,” Packer said, “Rowden will make himself scarce. Won’t you, Rowden?”
“Yeah,” said Rowden sullenly.
Burke Packer and his five chosen men saddled up and rode out.
“There ain’t that many horsemen in and out of Hermosillo,” Packer said. “We’ll circle the town, ridin’ a hundred yards apart. We’re lookin’ for two riders, but they might have split up to confuse us. If you find tracks of one horse or two, sing out.”
“What do you know of those mountains to the south?” Wes asked.
“There are mines and there are Indios,” said El Lobo.13
“We’ll take our chances with the Indians,” Wes said. “Let’s ride.”
Wes and El Lobo reined up at an elevation where they could see their back trail for many miles. Empty was somewhere ahead of them, elated over having escaped the hated village.
“We might as well keep watch here until we see them comin’,” Wes said. “It’ll be a good time to rest the horses.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “We ride back to meet them.”
“Maybe,” Wes said. “They’ll be expectin’ an ambush, and I can’t believe they’ll come at us head-on. If they have any savvy at all, some of ’em will flank us east and west while the others appear to be followin’ our trail.”
“Cross fire,” said El Lobo. “That be hell.”
“That, and worse,” Wes said. “We’ll have to spring our ambush before the hombres flankin’ us can move in close enough for an effective cross fire. They’ll be expectin’ us to retreat deeper into the mountains, and even if their cross fire fails, they’ll still have some of their bunch waitin’ for us.”
El Lobo laughed. “We do not retreat.”
“No,” said Wes. “If they split up, tryin’ to flank us, then we’ll drive straight through ’em, back toward Hermosillo. We’ll force the flankers to follow us and we’ll be waitin’ with a Winchester welcome.”
“They come,” El Lobo said, pointing.
Far away, losing themselves in distance and then reappearing, galloped six horsemen.
“Sometime, before entering the foothills, they should split up,” said Wes. “Then we’ll know what we have to do.”
The six men reined up to rest their horses, and Burke Packer took the opportunity to give final orders.
“Before we reach the foothills, we’ll split up. Dooley, I want you and Blake to swing wide to the east and then move forward. Elkins, you and Mullins will swing back to the west, followin’ the same pattern. Hanson and me will follow their trail, forcin’ them to spring their ambush.”
“Maybe you got a death wish,” said Hanson, “but I ain’t.”
“Hell, somebody’s got to spring the trap,” Packer said. “We’ll hold back as much as we can, allowin’ the others time to move in along the flanks. By the time they cut down on us, we’ll have ‘em in a cross fire. Even if that fails and they retreat, they’ll ride into the teeth of our ambush. We’ll have men behind ’em.”
“You be right,” said El Lobo. “They split up.”
“Not much else they can do,” Wes replied. “If they all came straight at us, we could cut them down to the last man. If their men can’t get into position to east and west and set up a cross fire, they’ll try to work their way in behind us. They’re expectin’ us to retreat farther into the mountains, givin’ them a chance to set up an ambush of their own.”
Even as Wes spoke, he could see the distant horsemen separating exactly as he had expected. It was a three-pronged offensive attack, and inexperienced defenders might well find themselves facing fire from three directions. But Wes and El Lobo—wise beyond their years—saw it for the obvious trap that it was.
“We ride lak hell, shoot lak hell,” said El Lobo.
“Come on,” Wes said. “We’ll take the packhorse with us. By the time those hombres are in position to flank us or move in behind us, we’ll be out of range. Then, by God, let them pursue us, if they’ve got the sand.”
Packer and Hanson rode slowly, allowing their four companions to get in position for the flanking maneuver. They were still in the foothills, and the very last thing they were expecting was an attack by the men they were pursuing, for there was no suitable cover for an ambush. The first and only warning they had was the thump of hoofbeats, and in the next instant, Wes and El Lobo topped a rise.
“Hell’s fire,” Hanson bawled, “here they come.”
“Cut them down!” Packer shouted.
But the two had been taken by surprise, and their first shots were hurried and wide. Wes and El Lobo held their fire until they were in range with their Colts. El Lobo fired first, and hard hit, Packer was flung out of the saddle. It was enough to spook Hanson, but he hadn’t moved quickly enough. He was wheeling his horse to ride for his life when Wes fired. The horse galloped away, riderless, leaving Hanson belly-down, his life leaking out into the sand. Wes and El Lobo rode on, back toward Hermosillo.
Dooley and Blake were the first to reach their fallen comrades. Seconds later, Elkins and Mullins reined up.
“Hanson’s dead,” Dooley announced.
“Packer ain’t,” said Blake, “but he soon will be, if we don’t git him to a doctor.”
Elkins and Mullins caught the horses belonging to Packer and Hanson. Quickly the four loaded their fallen comrades on their horses and headed for town.
“Whoa,” Dooley said, reining up. “We ain’t usin’ our heads. Them hombres is ahead of us. We could be ridin’ into an ambush. We’d better circle and ride in from some other direction.”
“We don’t git Packer to a doc pronto,” said Mullins, “he’ll be dead.”
“Won’t do him a hell of a lot of good if we’re all gunned down in an ambush,” said Elkins. “Dooley’s right. I say we circle around an’ ride back to our place. One of us can ride through town an’ fetch that Mexican sawbones next to the constable’s office.”
“I’ll git the doc,” Blake said. “The rest of you git back to camp and warn the others. That pair of gun-throwers could attack us there.”
It was a sobering thought, and the three set out in a roundabout way for their outpost. Blake rode on toward Hermosillo, his Winchester at the ready.
Contrary to the outlaws’ expectations, Wes and El Lobo had no intention of laying an ambush. Instead, they watched as one man headed for town, while the others—with their fallen comrades—rode away to the north.
“Three of ’em are takin’ the long way home,” Wes said. “I reckon they don’t want the local law askin’ bothersome questions about the two varmints ridin’ belly-down.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “Per’ap they fear the ambush. We follow?”
“Damn right,” Wes said. “Once we know where this bunch is holed up, we can lay all kinds of misery on them, while they can’t get to us.”
El Lobo laughed. “The cat and the mouse, no?”
“Sí,” said Wes. “It’s time word of us was gettin’ back to the skunk-striped coyotes at the top of this outlaw totem pole. We want them to think of us as el Diablo in duplicate, nine feet tall, with lead-spittin’ guns that never miss. I want the whole bunch of them—from the least to the greatest—afraid to close their eyes.”
“We chase the dragon
up a tree,” El Lobo said.
Wes laughed. “Now you’re gettin’ the idea.”
It was time to pursue the three outlaws. Wes and El Lobo rode out. Empty, ranging ahead, had already taken the trail.
Riding directly into town, Blake sought out Otero Hernandez, a Mexican doctor.
“I need you to come with me, doc,” said Blake. “A man’s been hurt.”
“Hurt in what manner, senor?” Hemandez inquired.
“Horse throwed him,” Blake said.
“Better you bring him here,” said the doctor. “I have carreta.”14
“Better you come with me,” Blake said. He drew his revolver, cocked it, and shoved it under the doctor’s nose.
“Sí,” Hernandez said, taking his bag.
Wicks and Tobin were on watch when Dooley, Elkins, and Mullins rode in, leading the horses bearing Packer and Hanson.
“My God,” Tazlo said, “what happened?”
“Packer split us up,” said Dooley. “Him an’ Hanson rode straight in, but this pair of ring-tailed hell-raisers didn’t retreat into a cross fire. They rode straight at Packer an’ Hanson, pumpin’ lead. Hanson’s dead as a Christmas goose, an’ Packer may be. Blake rode through town to fetch a doctor.”
Quickly they lifted Packer off the horse and moved him into the cabin. Stretching him out on a bunk, they opened his shirt.
“God,” Suggs said, “he’s hard hit, but at least he ain’t breathin’ blood.”
“Man don’t have to be lung-shot to die,” said Tazlo.
“You’d better hope he don’t,” Rowden growled. “He left you in charge. I’d hate like hell to git stuck explainin’ all this to Juarez or Nogales.”
“I reckon you’ll git a chance to explain that gunfight in town,” said Tazlo. “You think Juarez and Nogales won’t have to be told how it was that Vesper was shot dead and you was wounded, while them two gun-throwers escaped without a scratch?”
Rowden was spared the necessity of a reply by the arrival of Blake and the Mexican doctor. Hernandez stepped down from his wagon and tied his mule. Blake nodded toward the cabin door and the doctor entered. The men stepped aside, allowing him to reach the bunk where the wounded Burke Packer lay. His chest was a mass of blood, and Hernandez turned angrily to Blake.
“You said he was thrown from a horse!” the doctor said angrily.
“So I lied,” said Blake. “Now you git busy. If he don’t make it, we ain’t gonna think too highly of you.”
“I will do my best,” Hernandez said gravely.
Wes and El Lobo followed at a great distance, for Empty had taken the trail of the outlaws and there was no danger of losing them. The cabin was several miles from the village. Wes and El Lobo reined up a considerable distance away, so that neither their horses nor those of the outlaws would reveal their presence. Keeping to the little cover that was available, they crept within rifle range of the cabin. Beyond the cabin was a corral in which a dozen horses picked at loose hay. Outside the cabin was a ramshackle wagon with a patient mule still in harness.
“Likely a doctor,” Wes said. “One of us didn’t shoot straight.”
“Madre de Dios,” said El Lobo, in mock horror, “what will they think of us?”
“Unlimber your Winchester,” Wes said. “We’ll just see to it that we don’t lose any of their respect.”
Shooting high, they each blasted half a dozen shots into the back of the cabin.
Chapter 6
Some of the lead ripped through the chinks between the logs, showering the outlaws with dust. Men bellied down on the floor, while Dr. Hernandez hunkered at the foot of Packer’s bunk. They waited, expecting another volley, but none came.
“Damn them,” Blake said. “They’re tauntin’ us.”
“I reckon they got every right,” said Tazlo. “Six of you went after ‘em, an’ you come back with Hanson dead an’ Packer maybe dyin’. Worse, they follered you here, and there’s no way we can defend ourselves from this rat hole. They can pick us off one or two at a time if we try to run for it, or they can trap us here till dark and burn us alive.”
“Like hell,” Elkins said. “Come dark, we can git to our horses an’ run for it.”
“Leavin’ Packer here, I reckon,” said Tazlo.
“Damn right,” Elkins said. “I can’t see totin’ a dead body around, when we got a pair of pistoleers stalkin’ us. Packer likely won’t last till sundown. Right, Doc?”
“He has a chance,” said Hernandez cautiously. “We know manaña.”
“Tomorrow, hell,” Mullins said. “We ain’t got that much time.”
“Oh, I reckon we got time aplenty,” said Tazlo.
To prove his point, he stood back from the door, easing it open just a little. He then removed his hat and, holding it by the brim, exposed enough of the crown so that from a distance it might look as though a man were peering out. Almost immediately there was the bark of a Winchester and the hat was ripped out of Tazlo’s hand.
“That tells me what I ain’t wantin’ to hear,” Dooley said. “The bastards don’t aim for us to get out of here alive.”
“I can do no more for this man,” said Dr. Hernandez. “Am I allowed to leave?”
Blake laughed. “I’d say it depends on them hombres with the Winchesters.”
“You out there doin’ the shootin’,” Tazlo shouted. “There’s a Mejicano doc in here, an’ he wants out. Will you let him go?”
“He can go,” Wes shouted back.
“Not so fast, Doc,” Tazlo said. “First you tell us what more we can do for this man that’s been shot. We’re in no position to ride to town lookin’ for you.”
“Give him whiskey,” said Hernandez. “There is nothing more anyone can do.”
“Hell, we ain’t got but two bottles of whiskey,” Yokum said, “an’ we’ll likely need it ourselves.”
They said nothing about payment for the doctor’s services, and he, being allowed to escape with his life, didn’t ask. Easing the door open, he stepped out. When there was no gunfire, he hurriedly untied his mule, mounted the wagon box, and drove away.
Nogales, Mexico. July 17, 1884
It was still early when Skull Rudabaugh rode out of Nogales, bound for El Desemboque. After posting the letters, Skull would be riding to Hermosillo, but the more Watts thought about it, the more uneasy he became. So far, two of the Sandlin outposts had been totally destroyed, and it appeared that Hermosillo might become the third. Nothing was being done to counter the devastating attacks, but what could be done? Guaymos was less than a hundred miles south of Hermosillo. There might yet be time to send a force from Guaymos, if the right man were in charge. Suddenly the inspiration he sought came to him. Skull Rudabaugh! Skull would be riding to Hermosillo after leaving El Desemboque, but Skull was just one man, and by the time he reached Hermosillo, it would be too late. But suppose skull took a sailing ship directly to Guaymos and then led a force from there to Hermosillo?
Guaymos had already been alerted to danger; now he must alert them to the arrival of Skull Rudabaugh and the need for men to ride to Hermosillo. Quickly he composed a telegram to Guaymos, and a second for Skull when he reached El Desemboque.
Riding at a slow gallop and resting his horse often, Skull Rudabaugh reached the dock at El Desemboque before dark. Fortunately, a sailing ship was loading for ports south. The telegrapher’s shack was near the dock, and Skull tied his horse there. He was often there to intercept goods on incoming ships and was known to the telegrapher, who now beckoned to him. “Telegram fer you.”
Skull took the message. It was brief:Post other messages as planned stop. Take ship to Guaymos and personally deliver message to Stem Wurzback stop. Tell Wurzback to send help to Hermosillo stop. You will lead them stop.
The message was unsigned, but only Dolan Watts had known Skull was bound for El Desemboque. There was just time for Skull to book passage for himself and his horse. They would reach Guaymos during the night. If Wurzback didn’t waste any time, there
was a possibility that Skull and a force of fighting men might reach Hermosillo shortly after dawn. Skull could think of only one possible difficulty. There had always been bad blood between himself and Stem Wurzback, the Sandlin segundo at Guaymos. Stem would purely raise hell at the prospect of sending his men to Hermosillo with Skull leading them. There was no help for it, however, and Skull prepared himself for an unwelcome and probably ugly reception.
Within the outlaw cabin near Hermosillo, there was little conversation. The wounded Burke Packer lay unmoving, and only his ragged breathing told them he still lived. There was less than two hours of daylight remaining, and none of the men had any illusions as to what the night might bring. Blake said what they all were thinking.
“Soon as it’s dark enough, we got to make a run for our horses.”
“We do,” Tazlo said, “then we’ll have to get to ‘em ahead of that jasper with the rifle. All he’s got to do is spook the horses and we’re dead men. We don’t have enough water to make coffee in the mornin’. Give the sun two hours—if we’re still alive—and it’ll be hotter in here than seven kinds of hell, without water.”
Burke Packer groaned and all conversation ceased. He cut his eyes to right and left as far as he could, and when he finally spoke, they could barely hear him.
“Hanson ... ?”
“Hanson’s dead,” said Blake.
“The ... ambush ...”
“Wasn’t no ambush,” Blake said. “Them hombres went after you an’ Hanson like hell wouldn’t have it. They cut you down an’ was gone ‘fore we was in position to flank ’em or git behind ’em.”
“Didn’t ... some of ... you ... trail them?”
The Border Empire Page 9
