The Border Empire

by Ralph Compton

  “I was promised protection,” Hidalgo said. “I think per’ap it is time I withdraw.”

  “Sí,” said Ximinez. “Because of you and your promises of wealth, we betray the trust of the Mexican people.”

  Sandlin laughed. “You sold out, and you’re in this neck-deep, just like the rest of us. Nobody withdraws. There’s enough evidence to send every damn one of us before a firing squad ten times over, and if I go, I promise you, I won’t go alone.”

  “If these hombres were last in Mazatlán,” said Jarvis, “they must be coming south. If they’re hell-bent on destroying us, then they must be comin’ here.”

  “I’ve been waiting for some of you to reach that conclusion,” Sandlin said.

  “I reckon you’ve already reached it,” said Sumar, “so why the hell did you go along with organizin’ this manhunt in Durango?”

  “With hundreds of men available, I believed we might capture this pair before they got to us,” Sandlin said. “Now—after their activities in Mazatlan—I believe they are on their way here.”

  “That was a damn fool idea, orderin’ ‘em captured alive,” said Wittrus. “You should of offered a reward for ’em dead.”

  “I must agree with you,” Sandlin said. “We don’t know if they’re acting on their own, or if they’re part of a conspiracy, but they must be stopped. I have another plan, and this one is costly, because it does not involve any of our men.”

  “Our bunch ain’t made much of a showin’, so far,” said Jarvis. “Talk.”

  “I favor hiring as many professional gunmen as we can find. Killers, to put it bluntly. Each is to be paid a thousand dollars in advance, and five thousand more for each of the two men when he can prove he has killed them. Can we find ten such killers?”

  “Si,” Ximinez said. “Per’ap more.”

  “Put out the word, then,” said Sandlin. “I want them on the streets of Mexico City tomorrow.”

  “Sí,” Ximinez said. “You have the gold?”

  “I have it,” said Sandlin grimly.

  “Bueno,” Ximinez said. “It be done.”

  “This pair of hombres we’re after can shoot like hell wouldn’t have it,” said Sandlin. “You must be damn sure that when some of your gun-throwers get salted down, it can’t be laid at our door.”

  Mazatlán, Mexico. July 30, 1884

  When Black Bill Trevino and Dolan Watts had dispatched groups of men all across south-central Mexico, Brodi Fentress spoke to Trevino.

  “I’m ridin’ to Mazatlán to see what I can learn firsthand.”

  “Rucker, your segundo, went there just three days ago with twenty men,” Trevino reminded him.

  “All the more reason for me to follow,” said Fentress. “They must’ve learned something, or we’d have heard from them. If they’ve discovered a lead, we’re wasting a hell of a lot of time and men elsewhere.”

  Fentress rode out, reaching Mazatlán just in time to witness the arrival of most of the horses Rucker and his men had been riding. They came drifting in from the south, looking lost, and immediately drew the interest of various people. People who, Fentress suspected, had watched the twenty-one men ride out. Somewhere, Rucker and his men were afoot. Or dead. Fentress began hazing the horses, seeking to gather them, but it was a difficult task, bordering on the impossible. He looked around, seeking help, but there was not a man in sight. The curious Mexicans had vanished like frightened quail. With a sigh, Fentress went about driving the horses back the way they had come.

  Thirty miles south of Mazatlán, Rucker and his companions stumbled along on aching, blistered feet. They had long since abandoned their saddles.

  “Damn it,” Swenson complained, “I say some of us should go after the horses while the rest wait here. We can draw lots.”

  “Or we can send volunteers,” said Rucker. “You can be the first. Who wants to go with him?”

  “Hell,” said somebody in disgust, “let ever’body go after his own horse. We’re all at fault for not havin’ the brains to keep watch over the horses.”

  “That’s the truth,” Rucker said. “Nobody’s feet are more blistered than mine, and you don’t hear me whinin’. Now shut up and keep hoofin’ it.”

  A few minutes before sundown, Fentress, driving ten horses ahead of him, met the bedraggled men. All of them, including Rucker, seemed speechless.

  “I couldn’t gather them all,” said Fentress, “and the Mexes were too amused to help. Ten of you will have to ride back and find the others, and you’d better not waste any time. Our reputation’s suffered to the extent that the rest of your mounts may belong to somebody else before you can claim them.”

  “Hell, that’s a good thirty-five or forty miles each way,” Swenson complained, “an we got no saddles.”

  “Then you’ll ride bareback,” said Fentress in a dangerously brittle tone. “Those of you who claim these ten horses, mount up and get started.”

  Slowly, ten men came forward, one of whom was Swenson. Some of them mounted with difficulty, lacking saddles and stirrups, but eventually they rode away toward Mazatlán.

  “Now,” said Fentress, “how the hell did a salty bunch like you end up on foot, with your horses wandering loose in town?”

  “No excuse,” Rucker said. “It was still early, and we hadn’t posted a guard over the horses. They scattered ’em to hell and gone.”

  “Damn near all the way to Mazatlán,” said Fentress. “They wouldn’t have drifted that far on their own. Now, where would you say the bastards are that spooked them?”

  “Somewhere to the south,” Rucker said.

  “How do you know?” Fentress asked. “Were you trailing them?”

  “No,” said Rucker. “We were followin’ a hunch. Stayin’ near the coast, using the trees for cover, I don’t know how the hell they spotted us. Just the two of them, it’s almighty close to unnatural, what they can do.”

  “Well, they’re not phantoms,” Fentress said. “If they’re southbound, there has to be a trail. Once you have the rest of your horses, I want you to find that trail and stay with it for as far and as long as it takes you.”

  “Most of those hombres you sent after the horses wasn’t from my Durango outfit,” said Rucker. “I’d not be surprised if they just keep ridin’.”

  “I would,” Fentress said, “because I aim to catch up to them. One way or another, you’ll have horses sometime tomorrow.”

  With that, Fentress rode away, bound for Mazatlán.

  “I’m tempted to just keep ridin,” Swenson said to his nine companions as they rode uncomfortably toward Mazatlán. “Hell, I didn’t tie in with this outfit to ride all over Mexico huntin’ gun-happy hombres with a grudge.”

  “I’m wanted on the other side of the border,” said Bailey, “and I can’t imagine you bein’ lily white.”

  Rinks laughed. “Me neither. If ever’body wantin’ to hang Swenson was brung together in a bunch, they’d have to git in line an’ take a number.”

  All the others laughed, and Swenson said no more. It was just as well, for soon there was the thud of hoofbeats. They reined up and waited until Fentress reached them.

  “I reckoned you might need some help roundin’ up them horses,” Fentress said.

  The morning after stampeding the horses, Wes, El Lobo, Tamara, and Renita mounted and rode south. They remained in the mountains, and there was always the blue Pacific to the west. Occasionally the foothills became less wooded and they could see small villages along the distant coast.

  “The dragon does not follow,” El Lobo said.

  “They haven’t had time to recover their horses,” said Wes. “We dealt them a blow, leaving them afoot, but they now know we’re riding south. They’ll be after us.”

  “Oh, God,” Renita said, “I hope they don’t figure out where we’re going.”

  “If they haven’t, they will,” said Wes. “While we’ve discredited them all over Mexico, we haven’t touched the varmints at the highest level. They’ve got t
o suspect that’ll be our next move unless they stop us.”

  “Many will pursue us,” Tamara said, “but you know the dragon well. His fangs are mighty, and they run deep. The real danger lies ahead.”

  “There’ll be more rain sometime today,” said Wes, “so by the time they’re mounted, they won’t find a trail to follow. We should reach Mexico City well ahead of them. It all depends on what we find waiting for us there.”

  When Fentress and his ten companions reached Mazatlán, they had no trouble finding the missing horses. Mexican men watched in silence as they gathered the horses. They did not offer to help, nor did they seem afraid, and that bothered Fentress.

  “Now,” Fentress said, when the horses had been recovered, “get the hell back to the rest of the men. There’ll soon be another outfit followin’ you.”

  Fentress couldn’t be sure of that, but it was a threat calculated to force the outlaws to return the horses to their footsore companions. Rucker would take it from there. With that assurance, Fentress rode to Durango. Another change in plans was in order.

  “Well, by God,” said Black Bill Trevino when Fentress reported to him, “we’ve sent men east, all the way to the gulf. There’s near six hundred strung out across south-central Mexico, and now we learn the bastards we’re after are ridin’ along the Sierra Madres.”

  “Hell, I’m just telling you what’s happened,” Fentress said angrily. “I didn’t cause it.”

  “We don’t have time to fight among ourselves,” said Dolan Watts. “We gambled and lost. Now I think we all know where these pistoleers are bound.”

  “Yeah,” Black Bill said. “They’re on their way to Mexico City, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”

  “You can use the telegraph,” said Fentress. “If you can’t get the message across to Hidalgo and Ximinez, then I can.”

  “Don’t smartmouth me,” Trevino shouted. “If any messages are sent, I’ll send them. It’s my responsibility, not yours.”

  “Thanks,” said Fentress, his voice dripping sarcasm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Trevino saddled his horse and rode into Durango. Strong on his mind were his orders against using the telegraph, but a pair of dedicated killers were on their way to attack Sandlin’s border empire in a manner that might well destroy it.

  The sun was three hours high when Swenson and his companions returned with the needed horses.

  “By God, it took you long enough,” Rucker said.

  “You got your damn horses,” said Swenson. “Don’t you start bully-raggin’ us.”

  “Mount up,” Rucker ordered. “Let’s go after our saddles.”

  Their saddles and supplies were where they had been left.

  “We been ridin’ all night,” said Swenson, “and I ain’t goin’ nowhere until I eat. Damn it, I’m starved.”

  “No more so than the rest of us,” Rucker said grimly. “We have to make up for lost time. Now saddle up.”

  Swenson turned away, but only for a moment. He whirled to face Rucker, and there was a gun in his hand. But Rucker was ready for him. He fired once, and Swenson’s gun sagged, blasting lead into the ground at his feet. He stumbled backward, and when his knees buckled, he fell. The wind caught his hat and sent it cartwheeling away. The rest of the outlaws watched in silence, some of them swallowing hard.

  “I gave an order,” said Rucker. “If any of the rest of you have ideas that conflict with it, speak up.”

  Without a word, the men began saddling their horses.

  “There’s Swenson’s horse and saddle,” Bailey said.

  “Saddle his horse and bring it along on a lead rope,” said Rucker.

  “You want we should bury Swenson, so’s the coyotes can’t git at him?” Rinks asked.

  “Leave him lay,” said Rucker. “Coyotes won’t bother one of their own.”

  They rode away, Rucker leading them deeper into the Sierra Madre. Eventually they found the remains of a campfire and the tracks of four horses.

  “It’s got to be them,” Bailey said. “They must have that pair of whores with ’em.”

  “We never did figure out what happened to the Mex gal that escaped from the ship,” said Mannon.

  “That makes no difference now,” Rucker replied. “We’ll trail them as far as we can before dark.”

  “You mean before the rain washes out their tracks,” said one of the outlaws.

  There was no denying the truth of that, and the outlaws had been following the tracks less than an hour when the rain began.

  “Damn the luck,” Rucker said. “We can’t follow their tracks, but we know they’re on their way south. We’ll keep to the crest of these mountains until we pick up their trail again.”

  Chapter 11

  Toluca, Mexico. August 1, 1884

  Hidalgo and Ximinez, the Sandlin gang’s contacts within the upper echelons of government in Mexico City, had traveled under cover of darkness to Toluca, where they reported to Sandlin.

  “We have sent word to the hombres who sell their pistolas,” Ximinez said, “and they have accepted the gold.”

  “Who are they?” Sandlin asked.

  “You do not know them,” said Hidalgo.

  “I’ve laid out ten thousand dollars to these scum,” Sandlin said. “Damn it, what are their names?”

  “One should be careful, lest his tongue dig his grave,” said Ximinez. “These scum, as you refer to them, are dangerous men. They are Kalpana, Shawanna, Barbonsio, Ryashia, Picado, Zopilote, Quemada, Santos, Esteban, and Jaspeado.”

  “The first five I’ve never heard of,” Sandlin said.

  “Kalpana is Spanish,” said Hidalgo. “Shawanna, Barbonsio, and Ryashia are Indios, and Picado is Americano. The others are Mejicanos and half-breeds.”

  “You sure they won’t take our money and vamoose?”

  Ximinez laughed. “In their own way, they are honorable enough. They have all served time in prison. Most were sentenced to be executed and were saved only by compassion of certain ... ah ... officials within the government. Hidalgo and me believed they might at some time prove useful. That time is come, and they will not forget. There is, Per’ap, one small difficulty. These two hombres to be ... ah ... executed, how do we know them?”

  “I have received a carefully worded telegram from Durango,” Sandlin said. “Nobody’s seen either of these men and lived to talk, except a whorehouse madam in Mazatlán. One is an American, the other a mix of Spanish and Indian, both with buscadera rigs.”18

  “Some help, Per’ap,” Hidalgo said. “Nothing more?”

  “They may have two women with mem,” said Sandlin. “For some reason, they freed a pair of whores in Mazatlán. One from a whorehouse, the other from a ship that was bound for California. And for whatever it’s worth, they have gotten their hands on some of our dragon pieces, using them to their advantage.”

  “The dragon image is of no use in identifying them,” Ximinez said. “Our hombres use these pieces.”

  “No more,” said Sandlin. “Not until this troublesome pair is dead. I’ve issued orders that none of our outfit is to use the dragon piece until further notice. Your pistoleros have only to watch for the dragon sign. Nobody will be using it except the hombres who are to be gunned down.”

  “Ah,” Hidalgo said, “it is the touch of genius one does not often find in Americanos.”

  “Americanos have thin hides,” said Sandlin. “Don’t push your luck.”

  Ixtapa, Mexico. August 4, 1884

  “There’s a village down yonder, and a ship’s dock,” said Wes. “It’s the first dock we’ve seen in two days. We could be gettin’ close to that trail that crosses these mountains to Mexico City.”

  “I think so,” Tamara replied. “I pray that it has seen enough use that we do not cross in unknowingly.”

  Wes grinned, appreciating Tamara’s perfect English. He thought El Lobo was a little intimidated because of his own limitations.

  “Down there, across that clear
ing,” said Renita after they had ridden a short distance. “That looks like a road, or at least a trail.”

  “It looks mighty like a road;’ Wes said, ”and it’s plain enough. If it continues across these mountains, maybe it’s what we’ve been looking for.”

  “If it’s the road we seek, perhaps there will be someone we can ask,” Tamara said.

  The “road” proved to be only a pair of well-defined ruts, but it apparently did cross the mountains through a narrow pass. Almost immediately there was the distant rattle of a wagon on its way up the mountain road.

  “Not likely it’s part of the Sandlin gang in a wagon,” said Wes. “Maybe it’s somebody hauling freight. Let’s find out.”

  El Lobo had his hands near the butts of his Colts when the wagon, drawn by a team of mules, emerged from a stand of trees. The wagon was piled high with what appeared to be freight, and its two occupants were Mexicans in wide-brimmed sombreros. One held the reins while his companion held a shotgun, and it was he who first saw the riders.

  “Por Dios, bandidos!” he shouted.

  “En paz,” said Wes, raising his hand with the peace sign, two fingers up.

  Tamara spoke to them rapidly in Spanish, and the shotgun was laid aside. Trotting her horse closer to the wagon, Tamara continued to speak. At ease now, the Mexicans seemed to be answering her questions. When she was finished, they stood and removed their sombreros. Tamara back-stepped her horse, raised her hand in farewell, and the Mexican clucked to his team. The wagon rattled on its way, and Tamara joined her companions.

  “Excelente,” El Lobo said approvingly.

  “That was smooth,” said Wes.

  Tamara laughed. “I told them you and Palo are El Diablo Pistolas and that we ride to Mexico City. This is the road, and they bid us vaya con Dios.”

  “You took a terrible chance,” Renita said. “They might tell of having seen us.”