“I speak to the Señor Packer.”
“Packer ain’t feelin’ exactly prime,” Blake said. “What do you want?”
Expecting trouble, Skull Rudabaugh stepped out the door.
“I’m Rudabaugh,” said Skull, “and I’m in charge here. What do you want of us?”’
“I am not for certain, señor,” Pablo said. “In the night, the telegraph instrument be taken and this be left in its place.”
He dropped the medallion in the sand at Rudabaugh’s feet, and the morning sun shone brightly on the dragon’s head.
“I give you my word that nobody from here took your telegraph instrument,” said Skull. “Was anything else taken?”
“Sí,” Pablo replied. “Pliers and lineman’s spurs.”
“I don’t know how the coin got there,” said Skull, “unless somebody’s trying to frame us. We have no use for any of the items taken. When we have need of the telegraph, we pay.”
Pablo nodded and, without another word, rode away. Skull Rudabaugh returned to the cabin to face Burke Packer and Stem Wurzback.
“We heard,” said Packer. “What do you make of it?”
“The same pair that’s been givin’ us hell broke into the depot and took the telegraph instrument,” Skull replied, “and at least one of them knows how to use it. Why else would he have taken the pliers and lineman’s hooks?”
“We’re in trouble,” said Packer. “If one of them knows the code, they can flood the country with anything they choose.”
“Yeah,” Skull agreed, “and by now Watts will have left Nogales, bound for Durango. There’s nobody we can warn, except maybe Rance Stringfield in Juarez.”
Stem Wurzback laughed. “Then you got to holler real loud or do some hard ridin‘, since you got no telegraph. This is all your fault, Rudabaugh. I’d of sent some riders after them two hell-raisers when they rode away from here. You let ’em go scot-free, givin’ ’em time to break into the railroad depot last night.”
“Wurzback,” Skull said coldly, “when this is all finished, you and me are gonna take us a ride. Somewhere nice and quiet, where it’s just you and me. Then we’ll settle all our differences. Tomorrow at first light, we leave for Durango. Those of you recovering from wounds will have to make the best of it.”
Austin, Texas. July 18, 1884
Texas Ranger Bodie West had been away. When he returned, his companion, Dylan Stewart, had some interesting news.
“Bodie,” Stewart said, “this came in last night on the wire. We picked it up through the Juarez operator.”
He handed West the message Wes Stone had sent the night before. West eased himself down in a ladder-back chair and read the message.
“That’s one bueno hombre, with more than his share of sand,” Stewart said.
“God Almighty,” said West, “I’m surprised he’s lived this long. I knew his daddy, and this is the very damn fool thing Nathan Stone would have done.”
“You’re right about that, from what I’ve heard,” Stewart said, “but if this is who we’re thinkin’ it is, let’s don’t sell him short. He’s got himself a gun-quick compañero ridin’ with him, and in old Mexico, it takes some kind of hombre to accomplish that.”
Juarez, Mexico. July 18, 1884
The telegram from Nogales—with word of the gathering in Durango—reached Rance Stringfield only minutes ahead of the message Wes Stone had sent the night before. Turk Corbin had brought both messages and waited in silence until Stringfield had read them.
“What do you make of all this, Turk?” Stringfield asked.
“Two weeks ago, this coming together in Durango might have been the thing to do,” Corbin said, “but now I have my doubts. This pair of pistoleers is far more dangerous than any of us imagined, because one of them knows the code and can use the telegraph.”
“Where did this message originate?” Stringfield demanded.
“The telegrapher here says it was sent from Hermosillo,” said Corbin.
“Damn it,” Stringfield shouted, “he should be able to reach the operator at Hermosillo and find out what’s goin’ on there.”
“He tried,” said Corbin, “but immediately after this message was received, the key at Hermosillo went silent. It’s been silent ever since.”
“Could the line have been cut?”
“No,” Corbin said, “because contact has been made south of Hermosillo. But there’s no answer from the operator at Hermosillo.”
“Get in touch with railroad officials,” said Stringfield. “They can order the next train that’s southbound to stop and find out why the key’s dead at Hermosillo.”
“Now,” Wes said, “how do we get to Durango?”
“Per’ap six day,” said El Lobo. “We follow these mountains.”15
“I’ve never asked you,” Wes said, “but from what part of Mexico do you come?”
“San Ignacio,” said El Lobo. “It be near the water, north of Mazatlán, per’ap one day ride to the west of Durango.”
“I remember Mazatlán, from a map I saw once,” Wes said. “Ships dock there.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “It is there the bastardo Spaniard who is my father boarded the sailing ship, never to return.”
“Sorry,” Wes said. “I didn’t mean to remind you of that. Goin’ back won’t be easy on you, if ... nobody’s waiting.”
El Lobo finished his coffee, set down the tin cup, and when he finally spoke, it was with a wistfulness.
“There was Tamara.”
“Your intended?”
El Lobo laughed bitterly. “Tamara is pure, while El Lobo is the half-breed. Tamara Delmano is all I am not, and I am driven from her door as a perro.”
“Tamara drove you away?”
“Tamara did not,” said El Lobo. “It is her rico father, Hernando Delmano.”
“You should have fought for her,” Wes said.
“For why?” said El Lobo. “San Ignacio say I am no good, Hernando Delmano say I am no good, my own mother say I am no good, so I ride away. I sell my gun to outlaws and my soul to el Diablo.”
“You’re not selling your gun to outlaws now,” Wes said, “and you’re a long way from el Diablo havin’ your soul. We’ll be near San Ignacio, and Tamara will be older now. Why don’t you call on her?”
“Older,” said El Lobo. “Per’ap esposa.”
“You don’t know that,” Wes said. “Her highfalutin old daddy sounds like the kind that’ll keep her unmarried until he picks some varmint that suits him. See Tamara, and if she’s willing, take her with you to the United States.”
“Por favor, amigo, do not tempt me,” said El Lobo. “It is the destiny of a fool to have only his dreams.”
“Wrong,” Wes replied. “It is the destiny of a fool to live with his dreams only as long as he’s satisfied with ’em. If you want Tamara and she wants you, there won’t be anything or anybody in Mexico big enough to stand in your way.”
“Per’ap you be right,” said El Lobo.
He said no more, nor did Wes. Both knew that they might never leave Mexico alive, that if their bones were left to bleach forever beneath the hot desert sun, then all their dreams were for naught.
Hermosillo, Mexico. July 19, 1884
Twenty-two men, led by Skull Rudabaugh, rode south, bound for Durango. Passing through the village, they found it deserted, but from behind closed doors, some Mexican inhabitants of Hermosillo breathed sighs of relief. Others, however, suppressed their anger as they beheld their horses being ridden away by the outlaws.
“Madre mía,” said Constable Juan Pablo. “Madre mía.”
Chapter 8
Juarez, Mexico. July 21, 1884
Rance Stringfield had sent for Turk Corbin, and when Corbin arrived, he had disturbing news.
“I just got word from the railroad officials,” Corbin said, “and they’ve learned why the telegraph at Hermosillo has been silent. The instrument was stolen, probably by the same gent that sent the message givin’ us hell. He a
lso took a set of climbin’ hooks.”
“Then the hell-raising has only started,” said Stringfield. “They can climb a pole anywhere in Mexico and telegraph anything that suits their fancy.”
“With the telegraph government-controlled,” Corbin said, “we ought to get some help from the military.”
Stringfield laughed. “The military doesn’t care a damn for us. The only reason they’re not givin’ us hell is that they’re still out of favor with the people, and have been since the war.”
“Hell’s fire,” said Corbin, “that was near forty years ago.”
“Three times under Santa Anna’s military dictatorship left a lasting impression,” Stringfield said. “Our organization could never have survived under a strong military, but as it is, in return for their hostility, they seem to feel the Mexican people deserve whatever they get.”
“And that includes us,” said Corbin. “Who do you aim to send to Durango?”
“You,” Stringfield said. “Take five men of your choosing. Brodie Fentress is segundo there.”
“Will he be in command?”
“No,” said Stringfield. “Dolan Watts from Nogales is responsible for this gathering in Durango, and I expect him to take charge.”
“You want me to report back to you?”
“I think not,” Stringfield replied. “After this recent trouble with the telegraph—and with our enemies in possession of an instrument—I think we should leave it alone. We’ll allow Watts to make decisions regarding the use of the telegraph.”
“Yeah,” said Corbin. “Before this is done, I got an idea we’ll all be cussing the telegraph. I’ll get some men together, and we’ll leave tomorrow.”
Durango, Mexico. July 23, 1884
The outlaw stronghold was actually twenty-five miles west of Durango, a day’s ride from Mazatlán. Dolan Watts and his men reached Mazatlán in the late afternoon.
“We’ll take quarters here for the night,” Watts said. “If you go to the cantinas, limit your drinks. We’ll leave for Durango at first light.”
Mazatlán, with ready access to the Pacific ocean, hosted many sailing ships, and as a result boasted several hotels of some elegance. There were newspapers from half a dozen Mexican towns, but none from Hermosillo. But there was one from Durango, and Watts bought a copy. There was a possibility that the arrival of many riders had stirred curiosity and that there might be some mention of it in the newspaper. But Watts was unprepared for the startling spread that greeted him. Covering half the front page, the headline read:
EL DIABLO PISTOLAS COME, BANDIDOS DIE
It began with the text of the devastating telegram Wes Stone had sent from Hermosillo, which had prompted an investigation at Namiquipa and Chihuahua. Suddenly, in light of the newly discovered vulnerability of the Sandlin gang, people were talking. There were accounts of the killings of the outlaws at Namiquipa and Chihuahua, and the Mexican doctor at Hermosillo had told of wounded outlaws held captive in a cabin by just two men with deadly rifles. They had escaped only when the El Diablo Pistolas had allowed them to, and had immediately ridden away. The Mexican agent at the depot had testified to the theft of the telegraph key and was virtually certain it had been taken by the El Diablo Pistolas, since their telegram had been sent from there. The more Watts read, the more damaging it became. There was an editorial praising the unknown El Diablo Pistolas for accomplishing what Mexico’s soldados had been unable or unwilling to do, and openly urging the Mexican people to shelter and secure the renegades when possible. Yet another story speculated that, since the El Diablo Pistolas had taken the telegraph instrument, there would be other revealing telegrams. With that possibility in mind, the newspaper promised to remain in constant touch with the telegraph office. Watts dropped the paper on the hotel bed and went after copies of other newspapers. To his horror, their accounts were much the same, and some had gone ever further. The Mazatlán paper carried a story in which a prominent citizen of San Ignacio—Hemando Delmano—accused outlaws of stealing young Tamara, his only daughter. Playing off Delmano’s accusation, the newspaper suggested that the regular disappearance of young girls was, indeed, the work of outlaws, and that the señoritas were being sold into slavery. Some of the papers had boldly taken from Wes Stone’s telegram the dramatic words, Death to the dragon. Dolan Watts wadded the papers, dropping them at his feet. He had once believed the Sandlin gang, with its dragon dynasty, all but invincible. Now he was beset with uncertainty, dogged by an emotion unfamiliar to him. For the first time, Dolan Watts was afraid.
Los Mochis, Mexico. July 23, 1884
“What do you know of this place?” Wes asked. “Are Sandlin outlaws holed up here?”
“I do not know,” said El Lobo. “If the telegraph speak the truth, per’ap they be gone to Durango.”
“I’d like to get my hands on a newspaper,” Wes said. “I can’t believe the Sandlin gang is powerful enough to keep the lid on. Especially after I sent that telegram. There’s a dock and there’s ships, so one more strange hombre shouldn’t seem out of place. Empty doesn’t like towns, so I’ll leave him with you.”
“Sí,” said El Lobo. “Per’ap these papers be worth the risk.”
El Lobo watched Wes ride away, unaware that what he would soon learn would change the course of his life and sear into his very soul his hatred of the Sandlin gang.
Wes reined up in the hills above the town and saw nothing to arouse his suspicions. Several ships were docked, and he could see tiny figures as men scurried about unloading them. In the distance to the north was a distant finger of land. But beyond that—and before him—was an endless expanse of sky-blue water. The Pacific Ocean. Kicking the grulla into a trot, Wes rode on. The town, when he reached it, seemed dramatically different from inland Mexican towns. There were goods for sale everywhere, and open markets sheltered only by a makeshift roof. Dark-eyed señoritas looked at him, but he wasn’t the only man wearing guns, and thus attracted no undue attention. There were newspapers from Los Mochis, Mazatlán, and Durango. Wes bought copies of all three. Before leaving, he rode part of the way through town and made a discovery. On one end of a building that might have been a warehouse, there was a sign, TELEGRAFO.
“Telegraph,” he said aloud. “First one I’ve ever seen where there wasn’t a railroad.”
He rode on and was soon in the foothills. With a convenient telegraph line, it might be a good time to send another telegram before they rode on. He found El Lobo with his back to a tree, his eyes on the distant blue water.
“You didn’t even turn your head,” Wes chided. “Suppose it hadn’t been me.”
“I trust the perro,” said El Lobo. “He sleeps.”
“There’s a telegraph office,” Wes said. “Before we ride on, I ought to track down the line and send another telegram. But I can do that in the morning. Let’s find a place to make camp. I want to fan through these newspapers before dark.”
They rode until they found a stream, and there they unsaddled their horses.
“I fix grub,” said El Lobo. “You read papers.”
Wes unfolded the paper from Durango first, and caught his breath.
“Let the grub wait,” Wes said, “and look at this.”
El Lobo hesitated, and it occurred to Wes that he might not be able to read.
“Go ahead with the grub,” said Wes, “but keep your ears open. I’ll read it to you.”
He began reading, and El Lobo ceased what he was doing and listened. He laughed, and when Wes had finished the lengthy account in the Durango newspaper, he began reading the copy from Mazatlán. When he reached the story in which Hernando Delmano had accused outlaws of stealing Tamara, he paused, not believing his eyes.
“You stop,” said El Lobo.
“I didn’t know if I should read any more or not,” Wes said, “but this is something I think you should know. Listen.”
El Lobo listened, spellbound. When Wes had finished, El Lobo was gritting his teeth, a hand resting on the butt of e
ach of his Colts. When he finally spoke, Wes could scarcely hear him.
“Madre de Dios,” he hissed, “they take her for a puta. Por Dios, I kill them. I kill them all.”
“I know how you feel,” Wes said, “but you should first find and save Tamara. Killing the outlaws can wait.”
“Tamara be puta,” said El Lobo bitterly.
“You don’t know that,” Wes said, “but even if she is a whore, it’s no fault of hers. If she still wanted you, would you turn away and forget her?”
El Lobo looked at Wes, and his dark eyes were like points of flame. His mouth worked, but he couldn’t speak. He dropped his eyes toward the toes of his boots.
“Well,” said Wes, “would you? Would you turn away and forget her? Does El Lobo allow his foolish pride to suck the life from his dreams?”
“No!” El Lobo shouted. “No! I find her, and I kill the bastardos that take her.”
“Tomorrow, then,” said Wes, “we’ll ride as fast and as far as we can. I think first we must talk to her father, Hernando Delmano.”
“He no talk to me,” El Lobo said. “I am not pure.”
“So what?” said Wes. “That won’t mean a damn thing if you can rescue Tamara. I’ll be ridin’ with you.”
Wes extended his right hand, and at first it seemed that El Lobo wouldn’t accept it. When he finally did, his dark eyes lit with what could only be joy, and he spoke.
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