“No,” said Blake. “You was hard hit. We had to fetch you back here an’ git a doc.”
“So ... you ... lost them.”
“Like hell,” Tazlo said. “While Blake was fetchin’ the doc, them two varmints tagged along behind Dooley, Elkins, an’ Mullins. They’re settin’ out there with rifles, just waitin’ for dark.”
It was more than Packer could take. He spoke no more, lapsing into unconsciousness.
An hour before sundown, a rising wind herded dirty gray thunderheads in from the west. “We might have a chance, yet,” Tobin said. “There’ll be a storm tonight.”
“At least it’ll be too wet for ‘em to burn us out,” said Yokum. “It’ll be their rifles agin ours, an’ we got ’em outgunned.”
“There’s a storm buildin’ over yonder,” Wes said, “and that’s the kind of cover this bunch is waitin’ for.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo, “and storm come before dark, before we spook horses. Per’ap we use dinamita?”
“We may have to,” Wes said. “While it’s light, we can’t get close enough to fire the cabin, and there’s rain comin’ before dark. Keep an eye on the cabin and see that none of ’em makes a run for their horses. I’ll ride back for the packhorse.”
The bay had been left where there was water and graze, and of necessity was closer to the village than Wes had liked. Now he regretted not having taken the animal with them, and while he trusted Empty’s vigilance, the hound had his limitations. Uneasy now, he kicked the grulla into a fast gallop. Nearing the place where they had left the packhorse, he drew his Winchester from the saddle boot. Reining up, he dismounted, expecting Empty to come bounding to meet him. But there was no greeting, and he knew something was wrong. The bay horse and the packsaddle were gone, and Empty lay near the stream, his head a mass of blood.
“Empty, old son,” said Wes, his eyes dimming.
Kneeling beside the wounded hound, Wes found he was alive. Using his hat, he dipped water from the stream and poured it over Empty’s bloody head. The dog opened his eyes and tried to rise, but could not. Wes was relieved to find he had only been creased by a slug. Bringing another hatful of water, he allowed Empty to drink. The hound struggled to sit up and, using his hindquarters for support, got shakily to his feet. He shook himself, spraying Wes with water.
“Stand right there,” said Wes, “until I see to that wound.”
In his saddlebag was a tin of sulfur salve. Empty stood patiently while Wes smeared enough of the medication on the gash to stop the bleeding.
“Now,” Wes said, “we’ll take it slow until you’re steady on your feet.”
Wes had no trouble finding the tracks of the bay, for it was being led. He followed the trail just far enough to learn he was headed toward town. There was little doubt that the trail would be lost among the cobbled streets, alleys, and byways of Hermosillo. With that in mind, Wes wheeled the grulla and rode back toward the outlaw outpost. Empty trotted alongside, rapidly regaining his strength.
El Lobo said nothing as Wes reined up and dismounted, for little explanation was necessary. There was no packhorse, no packsaddle, and the faithful perro had a serious head wound.
“No packhorse, no packsaddle, no grub, and no dynamite,” Wes said. “The trail led straight toward town.”
“Some poor Mejicano be rich hombre,” said El Diablo.
“Yeah,” Wes said. “Good thing we loaded our saddlebags with all the grub and shells we could. We can last a few more days.”
Adding to their streak of bad luck, the rain blew in before it was dark enough for them to spook the outlaws’ horses.
“Plenty cover,” said El Lobo. “They run like coyotes. Manaña, no trail.”
“The same storm that covers them will cover us,” Wes said. “When this storm really starts to blow, we’ll stampede their horses. Then if they choose to run for it under cover of the storm or in the dark, they’ll be afoot.”
The storm grew in intensity, but it still wasn’t good dark. Suddenly the door to the cabin opened, and Wes sent a Winchester slug screaming through it. Just as suddenly, the door was closed.
“Satisfied?” Tazlo asked as Blake slammed the door shut.
“If we don’t git to them horses,” said Blake, “you’ll be laughin’ out of the other side of your mouth.”
“He’s right,” Mullins said. “This place ain’t worth a damn for defense, and we’ll be in big trouble if they stampede our horses. Packer left you in charge, and he’s still out of his head. What do you aim to do?”
“Give it another ten minutes and it’ll be dark,” said Tazlo. “Wicks, Tobin, Dooley, Suggs, and Yokum, you’ll go with me after the horses. We’ll picket them here behind the cabin. I want the rest of you right on our heels, with your Winchesters, coverin’ us. Comprende?”
“You ain’t called me by name,” Rowden said. “What are you expectin’ of me?”
“Not a damn thing,” said Tazlo. “With your arm an’ gun hand swole up bigger’n a corral post, what can you do?”
The situation was serious enough that nobody laughed. Rowden said nothing. The rain continued, driven by the wind, and when Tazlo judged it was dark enough, he opened the door, his comrades at his heels. Slipping and sliding in mud, they ran toward the horse corral.
Wes and El Lobo had begun working their way toward the horse corral when the cabin door opened. In the darkness and driving rain, the emerging men were no more than shadows.
“They come,” El Lobo said.
Wes had already begun firing, and El Lobo cut loose with his Winchester. Immediately their muzzle flashes drew fire, and they dropped to their knees in the mud. But the return fire from the outlaws quickly diminished, for even with poor visibility, their adversaries had proven themselves dangerously accurate. Tazlo, Dooley, and Blake had been hit, and on hands and knees scrambled back toward the cabin. The others, intimidated, followed.
“That’s enough,” Wes said. “We can’t afford to waste ammunition. We nicked some of them, and I reckon they won’t try anything foolish tonight. We’ll give them time to get back inside, and we’ll spook their horses.”
“Damn it,” said Elkins, “they’re a pair of devils. I didn’t see nothin’ but their muzzle flashes, an’ when I shot back, they wasn’t there.”
“You got no kick comin’,” Blake said. “At least you wasn’t hit.”
Blood dripped from his upper left arm, while Tazlo and Dooley had leg wounds.
“One of you stir up the fire, so’s we got some light,” said Tazlo. “We’ll be needin’ help with these wounds.”
“I told you them bastards was straight outa hell,” Rowden said with considerable satisfaction. “At least, you hombres knowed what you was gittin’ into. Them two busted in, takin’ Vesper an’ me by surprise.”
“By God,” said Yokum, “I’m ’bout ready to agree with Rowden. We’re up agin more’n just a pair of hell-raisers. They’re out to kill us all.”
Suddenly, above the roar of the storm, there were shots and shouts.
“There goes the horses,” Rowden said.
Except for Burke Packer’s ragged breathing, there was only silence as every man pondered the grim reality of what lay ahead. The horses were gone. When the storm and the night passed, el Diablo’s hombres would be waiting. With their deadly Winchesters ...
Guaymos, Mexico. July 17, 1884
Somewhere in the village, a clock in a church tower struck eleven as Skull Rudabaugh led his horse off the ship and onto the dock. Mounting, he rode into the silent village. He expected the outlaws to have a man on watch, since they’d been sent a warning telegram, and he wasn’t disappointed. They were headquartered in an old house in a run-down part of town, and the sentry sat on the front porch, a Winchester across his knees. He got to his feet when he heard the horse coming. Skull reined up.
“Who are you,” the sentry demanded, “and what do you want?”
“I’m Skull Rudabaugh, from Nogales, and I have a message from D
olan Watts for Stem Wurzback. He’s to receive it tonight.”
“Like hell,” said the sentry. “It’s near midnight. He’d have my head an’ yours. Come back in the mornin’.”
“I’ll take responsibility for wakin’ him,” Skull said, “but I’ve been ordered to get this message to him tonight. Them orders come straight from Dolan Watts at Nogales. If Stem don’t like it, then let him complain to Watts.”
“It’s your funeral,” said the sentry. “I’ll wake him. ”
Wurzback finally appeared, minus boots and hat. The sentry took his place in the chair, while Wurzback sat down on the steps. When he spoke, it was without friendliness.
“Talk, Rudabaugh, an’ by God, it’d better be good.”
“There’s a written message from Dolan Watts,” Skull said. “I was about to post it at El Desemboque, but there was a telegram from Watts ordering me to deliver it. I reckon you got a warning telegram about a possible attack?”
“Yeah,” said Wurzback, “I got it. We don’t normally post a guard.”
“I’m goin’ to tell you what’s behind that telegraphed warning,” Skull said, “and then I have further orders from Dolan Watts.”
Wurzback said nothing, and Skull presented the facts as quickly as he could. For a moment, Wurzback said nothing. Then he laughed.
“You’re tellin’ me them bull-of-the-woods outfits in Namiquipa and Chihuahua was wiped out by a pair of fast guns?”
“That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you,” said Skull, “and there’s every reason to believe Hermosillo is next. Watts has ordered me to lead as many men as you can spare. We’re to ride for Hermosillo just as quick as you can roust ’em out.”
“No,” Wurzback shouted. “By God, no! I ain’t sendin’ my outfit nowhere on your sayso, an’ for sure not with you leadin’ ’em.”
“You don’t like me, Wurzback, and I don’t like you,” said Skull, “an’ there’ll come a time when we’ll have to settle our differences, but this ain’t the time. Now you round up your bunch and get ’em ready to ride or I’ll telegraph Watts at Nogales for authority to assume command of this outpost by whatever force may be necessary.”
Wurzback got to his feet, but Skull had his thumb hooked under his gunbelt above the butt of his revolver.
“We’ll ride,” Wurzback said, “but not under your command. I’m leadin’ my outfit, and I want that written message from Watts.”
Without a word, Skull handed Wurzback the envelope, and Wurzback spoke to the sentry.
“Mayfield, wake everybody. Tell them we’re ridin’ in fifteen minutes. Nogales’s orders.”
Mayfield entered the house and Wurzback followed, leaving Skull Rudabaugh standing beside his horse. It wouldn’t really matter if Wurzback insisted on being in control, unless the expedition ended in failure. In that event, Wurzback could also take the blame.
Hermosillo, Mexico. July 18, 1884
The storm passed well before midnight. Silver stars bloomed in the purple meadow of the sky. Wes and El Lobo continued watching the cabin, but there was little activity except for an occasional shadow visible through a window, the result of a low-burning fire. Inside the cabin, four wounded men slept fitfully, while the others didn’t sleep at all.
“There’s a chance the horses might drift back,” Suggs said.
“Not if they run as far as the village,” said Yokum.
“He’s right about that,” Rowden said. “After the Mejicanos have penned ‘em up for a week, we’ll never see ’em again. That weasel of a doc will spread the word that we’re in trouble out here, and our reputation in town will be shot to hell.”
“We’re likely to be shot to hell along with our reputation,” said Tobin. “We got one man dead and four with lead in ’em, while the bastards that done it ain’t got a scratch. We got no horses, just a little water, and a pair of killers waitin’ for us.”
“Packer may be conscious, come mornin’,” Rowden said hopefully. “Maybe he’ll have a plan.”
Wicks laughed bitterly. “If he has, I hope it’s better than his ambush that got him an’ Hanson gunned down.”
Guaymos, Mexico. July 18, 1884
A few minutes before midnight, twelve horsemen rode north, bound for Hermosillo. Stem Wurzback had taken control of his ten-man outfit, and Skull Rudabaugh had chosen to ride along in silence. The success of their mission—reaching Hermosillo in time—was of more importance than contesting Wurzback’s leadership, but the issue was by no means resolved. Skull would see to it that Wurzback’s act of insubordination was made known to Dolan Watts at Nogales, and if that failed, there were other ways.
“Rein up,” Wurzback ordered. “Time to rest the horses.”
“You’re resting the horses a mite often,” said Skull.
“My decision,” Wurzback snapped.
“I’m keeping that in mind,” said Skull. “If we don’t reach Hermosillo in time, I’ll see that Nogales holds you responsible.”
Wurzback said nothing, but Skull noticed with some satisfaction that there were fewer and fewer delays. Riding at a slow gallop, they were within a few miles of Hermosillo when the first gray light of dawn touched the eastern sky. They bypassed the village, reining up on a rise from which they could see the outlaw cabin.
“Not a horse in the corral,” Wurzback said. “That don’t seem right.”
“This pair of gun-throwers always stampede the horses first,” said Skull. “Does that tell you anything?”
“Packer and his bunch may be elsewhere,” Wurzback said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Don’t you reckon they’d take the horses?”
“No danger, then,” said Skull. “Why don’t you just ride down there and knock on the door?”
“Hello, the cabin,” Wurzback bawled. “Burke Packer, are you there? This is Wurzback and riders, from Guaymos.”
“This is Tazlo,” came the shouted response. “Packer’s hurt, and we’re pinned down.”
“Hell,” said Wurzback, in surprise, “I don’t see no—”
The crack of a Winchester seemed loud in the morning stillness. The slug burned the flank of Wurzback’s roan, and the animal began crow-hopping. Wurzback was pitched ignominiously into the sand. There were more shots, and men cried out in pain. One of the riders caught Wurzback’s horse. Disorganized, they galloped out of range, while Wurzback ran after them, lead kicking up dust at his heels.
“By God, I wouldn’t have missed this for all the tea in China,” said Skull Rudabaugh as Wurzback stumbled into their midst.
“Damn it,” Wurzback shouted, “bring me my horse.”
One of the men brought the animal, still skittish, and bleeding from a bloody gash on its flank.
“The situation down there ain’t likely to change in the next few minutes,” said Skull. “Your horse is hurt; see to his wound.”
“Damn the horse,” Wurzback snarled.
He had his foot in the stirrup when Skull hit him. He fell, and the already spooked horse danced away from him. Furious, Wurzback went for his gun, only to find himself looking into the muzzle of Skull’s Colt.
“I wouldn’t,” said Skull. “You’re here against orders from Nogales. The rest of you men should know that, before he starts somethin’ he can’t finish. Those hombres with the rifles are no shorthorns. The two of them wiped out the outposts at Namiquipa and Chihuahua. Mayfield, you were there standing watch. You heard me tell Wurzback about the killings at Namiquipa and Chihuahua, and you heard me relay the orders I brought from Nogales.”
“Yeah,” Mayfield admitted, “I heard.”
“You men can ride with Wurzback or you can ride with me,” said Skull. “I’m taking my orders from Dolan Watts at Nogales, and I’ll be reporting to him. If you’re sidin’ me, move over here to my right and tell me your names.”
Mayfield was the first, and the others followed. Tuttle, Boyce, Upton, Lowe, Savage, McDaniel, Willis, Handy, Pucket ...
“Damn you, Rudabaugh,” Wurzback said, “you�
��ll pay for this.”
“You’re lookin’ at it a mite cockeyed,” said Skull. “It’s me that’s followin’ orders, an’ if there’s any payin’ to be done, it’s you that’ll be doin’ it. Now, if you aim to ride along and add your gun to the fracas, welcome. If you don‘t, then ride out an’ keep goin’. After I report to Watts at Nogales, there won’t be room for you anywhere in Mexico.”
After firing at the band of outlaws from Guaymos, Wes and El Lobo remained under cover, but the riders remained out of range of the Winchesters.
“I reckon we won’t have to ride to Guaymos,” Wes said. “The outlaws from there are over yonder on that rise, wonderin’ what to do about us.”
“We don’t stay here,” said El Lobo. “There be many, and they surround us.”
“No,” Wes agreed, “I reckon we’ll have to retreat until we can think of some way of attacking without getting our ears shot off. We’ll ride back into the mountains and force them to come looking for us. They’ll be a day or two, licking their wounds. Maybe we can track down our packhorse, or at least find a place to buy grub.”
Wes and El Lobo rode away while the outlaws from Guaymos were on the far side of the ridge. The men within the cabin were jubilant.
“By God,” said Tazlo, “Juarez and Nogales must be organizing against these attacks. One of you go and hail the riders from Guaymos. Tell ’em the killers have backed off.”
“Somethin’ tells me we’d better ride through town and look for a general store,” Wes said. “When that bunch comes after us, they may have even more hired guns. We got to add to our store of grub while we can.”
“No packhorse,” said El Lobo.
“No,” Wes agreed, “but that might be just as well. If we have to run, a packhorse would only slow us down. Besides our saddlebags, each of us can carry maybe fifty extra pounds behind our saddles. What really bothers me is that we may not be able to find ammunition for our Colts and Winchesters.”
The Border Empire Page 10
