The Border Empire

by Ralph Compton

  “They will not tell in any way that harms us,” said Tamara. “They say the Mexican people are praying for us, and urge us to ride carefully. This is the way to Mexico City, but when I spoke of it, they said the dragon waits in Toluca.”

  “Then we may be barkin’ up the wrong tree, ridin’ to Mexico City,” Wes said.

  “I do not think so,” said Tamara, -“or they would have told us. Perhaps Toluca is a nearby village.”

  “When I ride with the outlaws at Chihuahua, I hear the name Toluca,” El Lobo said.

  “Then we’ll ride on to Mexico City,” said Wes. “Just because the Mexican government is headquartered in Mexico City there’s no reason the Sandlin bunch can’t be holed up in another place. In fact, that makes perfect sense. The last thing the outlaws would want is to have their link to the Mexican government revealed.”

  “I think the people know of it,” Tamara said, “but they are afraid. They do not know how to oppose it, and that is why they wish us well.”

  “Then if we can expose the whole rotten mess,” said Wes, “we can accomplish even more than we set out to do. We can smash the Sandlin gang, and in so doing, give these people back their country.”

  “Si,” El Lobo said. “Mejicanos make monument to us.”

  “Shame,” said Tamara. “That is selfish.”

  “Damn right,” Wes said, going along with her humor. “I’ll settle for just gettin’ out of Mexico alive.”

  Durango, Mexico. August 4, 1884

  When Brodie Fentress reported to Dolan Watts and Black Bill Trevino, he told them only that Rucker and his men had picked up the trail of four riders, two of which were believed to be the men bent on the destruction of the Sandlin gang. He chose not to reveal that Rucker—his lieutenant—had foolishly failed to have the horses watched and that as a result he and all his men had been afoot for two days.

  “So they are headed south,” Black Bill Trevino said. “How do you account for the two extra horses?”

  “I’d say the two extra mounts account for the pair of whores they stole in Mazatlán,” said Fentress.

  “Since you’re the hombre with the answers,” Watts said, “why is this pair of hell-fire and brimstone pistol-toters got a couple of whores ridin’ with ’em?”

  “Why not?” said Fentress. “It’s just possible these females are sisters—or even wives—of the hombres that’s been givin’ us hell. There’s some reason they’ve got it in for us. Selling women for whores is a lowdown, stinking business, and I’ve never favored it.”

  Watts laughed. “Well, if you’ve done gone and got religion, you can leave anytime. I don’t see any leg irons on you.”

  ‘“That’s enough,” Black Bill Trevino said. “We got trouble enough without any fights among ourselves. Now that we know the men we’re after are ridin’ south—probably to Mexico City—what are we gonna do about the near six hundred men scattered all the way from Mazatlán to Tampico?”

  “Nothing we can do,” said Watts. “They’ve been told to work their way south, but to not go beyond Mexico City.”

  “Just a damn shame to waste all that force,” Trevino said, “when we’re all but certain the men we’re after are somewhere between here and Mexico City. I’ll likely catch hell for such a miscalculation, but I did wire them a description of the hombres that busted into the whorehouse in Mazatlán.”

  “Hell, that’s more than we had,” said Fentress. “It’s time they stood up on their hind legs and done some snake-stompin’ of their own.”

  “I’d agree with that,” Trevino said, “but for one thing. This pair of hell-raisers have proven that, with a little encouragement, the Mexican people will turn on us. Let somethin’ bust loose exposing our people in the upper levels of government, and it could result in a military coup. We’ve been tolerated by the military because they’ve been out of favor with the Mexican people. Let these people forget the dictatorships of Santa Anna and join hands with the military, and we’re finished.”

  Ixtapa, Mexico. August 6, 1884.

  Every day since Denton Rucker and his men had recovered their horses, there had been rain. No sooner had they found the trail they were seeking than thunderheads rolled in and drenched the land. When they reached the road that crossed the Sierra Madres, the wagon ruts were full of water, and there wasn’t a sign of a track.

  “Well,” Bailey said, “do we keep ridin’ south or do we foller this wagon road?”

  “We’ll ride east along the wagon road,” said Rucker. ‘“This road looks well traveled. If we meet somebody, we’ll ask if this is the way to Mexico City.”

  They had stopped in the wagon road to rest their horses, when they heard a wagon coming up the mountain. By the time the two Mexicans saw the riders, they could only slow their freight wagon and come warily on. Rucker trotted his horse back to meet them, his hands raised to show he meant no harm. In his best Spanish, he spoke to them, asking if the road they traveled led to Mexico City.

  “No comprende,” said the Mexican who held the reins.

  His companion said nothing, but tilted the muzzle of his shotgun toward Rucker.

  Rucker repeated his question and received the same response. The Mexican with the shotgun laid its ugly muzzle across his knee, pointing it directly at Rucker’s middle. There was little Rucker could do except ride away, and he hastily did so. He joined his waiting companions, and they watched the wagon rumble out of sight.

  “Nervy bastards,” said Rinks, “and they didn’t even know us.”

  “They know us,” Rucker said, “and they know who we’re after. That gun-throwin’ coyote and his telegrams has played hell with our reputation.”

  They rode on, being careful not to catch up to the wagon and its testy Mejicanos.

  Half an hour and many miles later, the Mexican with the shotgun spoke. “Bastardos. They follow El Diablo Pistolas. ”

  “Sí,” his companion replied. “May El Diablo soon welcome them to his hacienda.”

  Mexcio City. August 7, 1884

  “We’ll wait until after dark before riding into town,” Wes said. “El Lobo and me will visit a few cantinas and perhaps learn something.”

  “I do not feel I am being useful,” said Tamara.

  “Neither do I,” Renita said. “Can we do nothing more than stay with the horses and wait?”

  “That be important,” El Lobo said.

  “It is,” said Wes. “The Sandlin gang should know by now that we’re through shooting up isolated outposts. I think they’ll be looking for us to show up here, and that means the danger is double. I haven’t spoken of this before, because it didn’t seem necessary. Now it does. There’s a chance that El Lobo and me will run into some of the Sandlin gang, that we may not be able to get back to the horses. We may be shot or captured. It’s important that we not lose the horses, and it’s even more important that neither of you fall into the hands of the outlaws. If it becomes obvious that we’ve been captured, or if we’re forced to run for it, take the horses and ride. Hole up somewhere, and if you can’t find us, then wait for us to find you. If we’re gunned down, hide out during daylight hours and follow the north star at night. Try to reach the border. There’s a Texas Ranger station at San Antonio. Ask for Bodie West. He knows I’m in Mexico, and he knows why I came. So if I cash in, I’ll want him to know. Tell him Tamara is to be welcomed in my name.

  “Wes,” Renita said, near tears, “I want to see the Sandlin gang destroyed, but not at the cost of your life.”

  “I stood over my father, Nathan Stone, while the life leaked out of him,” said Wes, “and I took an oath—a blood oath—to destroy the varmints responsible for his death. If I fail to do that, I couldn’t live with myself. You must understand.”19

  “I ... I’ll try,” Renita said softly.

  “Bueno, valiente hombre,” said El Lobo.

  “Muerte antes deshonra,”20 Tamara said. “Wes and Palo, vaya con Dios.”

  They waited for darkness to fall, and there was litt
le conversation, for it seemed there was nothing more to be said. They rode in from the south, avoiding well-lit streets, seeking the less affluent side of town where there were dingy cantinas, open-front cafes, and the smell of roasting meat. They reached a cross street, and three buildings down was what appeared to be a hotel or boardinghouse.

  “If there’s an alley behind those houses,” Wes said, “We’ll leave the horses there.”

  Empty didn’t like towns, and he sought the shadow of the buildings. Halfway down the block was the dark maw of an alley that ran behind the buildings fronting the cross street. The dim glow of an occasional lamp bled into the alley, but that was all.

  “We’ll leave the horses here,” said Wes. “Renita, Tamara, don’t forget what I’ve told you. Empty, stay.”

  Just for a moment, Wes took Renita’s hand. El Lobo spent a similar moment with Tamara and then followed Wes down the alley. Reaching the street, they walked close to the buildings, keeping within the shadows. Ahead of them was a cantina, its door lit by a single bracket lamp. Wes opened the door and stepped inside, El Lobo following. The Mexican cantinas, unlike saloons, didn’t encourage patrons at the bar. Instead, there were many small tables, each with four ladder-back chairs. White-aproned waiters moved quietly among the tables, leaving full bottles, removing empty ones. Wes and El Lobo took a table in a comer of the room, where they could see the front door, as well as the curtain that concealed what might be a back exit. One of the waiters glided over, and Wes nodded to El Lobo.

  “Pulque,” El Lobo said.

  They were brought a bottle and two glasses. El Lobo poured three fingers of the potent liquid in each of the glasses, while Wes looked around the room. There were only a few patrons, two of which looked vaguely familiar. El Lobo sipped his drink, and, not wishing to appear conspicuous, Wes tried his own. The stuff was like liquid fire, and he broke into a wheezing cough.

  “God Almighty,” he grunted, “what is this stuff?”

  El Lobo laughed softly. “Hundred and forty proof.”

  Unbidden, one of the waiters brought a glass of water. Wes gulped it gratefully, and thereafter took only small sips of the fiery liquid, seeming not to notice his companion. El Lobo had recognized the two men who seemed familiar to Wes as the pair of Mexican freighters they had met on the road to Mexico City. When the men left the cantina, El Lobo followed. Once they were on the street, in the shadows, one of the Mexicans spoke.

  “El Diablo Pistolas?”

  “Sí,” said El Lobo.

  “Hidalgo, Ximinez, Mejicano politicos,” said the Mexican. “These hombres serve the dragon. Rapido pistolas matar. Oro. Mucho hombres.”

  He said no more, and the two hurried away. El Lobo returned to the cantina and for the next few moments concerned himself with emptying his glass. His elbows on the table, he spoke so softly, Wes could barely hear him.

  “These are the Mejicano freighters we meet on the trail. They say Mejicano politicos Hidalgo and Ximinez serve the dragon. They hire fast guns, pay in gold.”

  “So the Sandlin gang is sendin’ hired guns after us,” Wes said, “and we have no way of knowin’ who they are.”

  “Sí,” said El Lobo.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Wes said. “That pair of hombres at the table near the bar was almighty interested when you left the cantina with those freighters.”

  Wes beckoned to one of the waiters, digging into his pocket for a coin to pay for the drinks. For only an instant, among the coins in the palm of his hand was one of the coins with the dragon’s head. The waiter accepted a coin in payment and, when he turned away, nodded almost imperceptibly to the pair of men of whom Wes had been suspicious. Wes and El Lobo had no warning, and all that saved them was the dimness within the cantina and the haste of the gunmen. The two fired simultaneously, and before they could fire a second time, Wes and El Lobo had upended a pair of tables and were returning the fire. But the odds changed rapidly when two more gunmen burst through the front door.

  “Cuidado, amigo!” El Lobo shouted.

  He scrambled around the end of the bar, and Wes followed, lead clipping chairs and tables all around them. Their only chance lay in reaching the back door. If there was one. Bursting through the curtain, they came face-to-face with one of the barmen bearing a sawed-off shotgun. El Lobo shoved the gun’s muzzle aside, slugging its bearer with the muzzle of his Colt. Wes leaped aside just as the shotgun roared, and the charge struck some of the gunmen who were pursuing. There were shouts of pain and the sound of a body striking the floor. There was no light except that which leaked through from the cantina, and the back door was barely visible. It was also locked.

  “Hit it!” Wes grunted.

  El Lobo slammed his shoulder against the door, and it barely moved.

  “Stand ‘em off; ’ said Wes, ”and let me try.”

  El Lobo drew both Colts and began firing, while Wes attacked the door. Once, twice, three times he put his shoulder to it before he felt it give. The gunmen were returning El Lobo’s fire, and a slug struck Wes in the left arm above the elbow. Wes drove his right shoulder into the door, and it splintered just as El Lobo’s Colt’s clicked on empty. Just as they stepped into the alley, there was the thud of boots on cobblestones. Guns flamed in the darkness, and El Lobo grunted in pain. Wes drew his right-hand Colt and, returning the fire, had the satisfaction of hearing one of their pursuers cry out in pain. It had some effect on the others, and when his Colt clicked on empty, Wes holstered it. Blood dripping off the fingers of his left hand, he used his right to draw his left-hand Colt. Once, twice, three times he fired at muzzle flashes. El Lobo stumbled and almost fell.

  “How bad, amigo?” Wes asked.

  “The leg,” El Lobo grunted.

  “Lean on me,” said Wes. “We must make it to the horses.”

  There was no longer any sound of pursuit, but somewhere ahead there was the clop-clop-clop of hooves.

  “Damn,” said Wes in despair.

  Suddenly there was that friendly rumble from Empty’s throat that he often used to announce his presence. Wes drew a deep breath and paused, aware that Tamara and Renita were bringing their horses.

  “We heard shooting,” Renita said, “and we believed you needed your horses.”

  “You couldn’t have been more right,” said Wes. “At least four gunmen jumped us. El Lobo has a leg wound, and I have a bloody left arm. Can you mount, amigo?”

  “Si,” El Lobo said. “I lose much blood.”

  “We must get away from here and back into the hills,” said Wes. “We have to find a place to hole up and treat our wounds.”

  But El Lobo was leaning against his horse, reloading his Colts, and Wes followed his example. Making their way out of town, they rode slowly, hoping not to attract unwanted attention. They needed hot water to cleanse their wounds, but they dared not risk a fire, for they knew not how many gunmen were looking for them. Somewhere ahead of them, a mule brayed.

  “Rein up,” Wes ordered. “Could be trouble.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Tamara. “Quien es?” she asked softly.

  “Amigos,” came the reply. “El Diablo Pistolas?”

  “Sí,” Tamara replied. “Daño. Medico.”

  “Seguir,” said the voice from the darkness.

  “He wishes us to follow; ” Tamara said. “He is one of the teamsters who spoke to us on the road to Mexico City.”

  “We owe them our lives,” said Wes. “But for them, we would never have gotten out of that cantina alive. Tell him we’ll go with him.”

  Tamara spoke in swift Spanish, and the second Mexican soon appeared with the team of mules and the wagon. The Mexican who had spoken to Tamara joined his companion on the wagon box, and the wagon rumbled off into what appeared to be dense woods. But the Mejicanos knew where they were going, and the wagon progressed without difficulty. When they reached a swift-running creek, the Mejicano handling the team reined up. Trotting her horse alongside the wagon, Tamara asked a question and one of
the teamsters answered.

  “We are to ride our horses in the creek,” Tamara said. “They believe that with the dawn, the killers will follow.”

  “I can’t argue with that kind of thinking,” said Wes. “Where are they taking us?”

  “To a place of safety, where your wounds can heal,” Tamara said.

  Wes, El Lobo, Tamara, and Renita trotted their horses into the creek, and the wagon rattled along beside it. They rode for what seemed like many miles before there was finally a dim light somewhere ahead. There was the braying of numerous mules, which suggested this was more than just a peon’s cottage. At the bidding of their hosts, they left the creek and approached an enormous barn. Adjoining was a six-rail.high corral in which more than a dozen mules picked at hay. The light they had seen from a distance proved to be a single lantern hanging near the barn’s entrance. The two Mejicanos climbed down from the wagon box and approached the barn on foot, while Wes, El Lobo, Tamara, and Renita waited. A Mexican hostler came out of the barn and the teamsters spoke to him in rapid Spanish for a few moments. The teamsters then mounted their wagon box and drove away. Approaching the riders, the Mexican hostler spoke.

  “Señors, señoritas, I am Pablo. Ride your horses into the barn. I will see to them. But first we must conceal you from the Diablo dragon. Then Shekeela will care for your wounds.”

  The center of the barn was open, with stalls down both sides, and Pablo paused at one of the stalls at the very end. Kicking aside loose hay, he revealed an iron ring in what proved to be a wooden floor. Steps led down into the darkness. Pablo took a lantern from a wooden peg, lit it, and led the way down the steps to a musty room. It was large enough for five bunks. On a table sat a small charcoal stove, and on the floor a bin of charcoal. The bunks were no more than wooden frames with latticed—crisscrossed—rawhide strips several inches wide. There were clean blankets on each of the bunks. Pablo sat the lantern on the table, and from a wooden bucket poured water into a blackened iron pot. He then sloshed a little oil from the lantern on to the charcoal and lit the stove.