The Border Empire (6 page)

“This damn thing's as big as a wagon wheel,” Wes complained.

Maria laughed. “Is
Mejicano
.”

Wes gathered up his Texas clothing, including his hat. He wrapped it carefully in the brown paper in which the store had wrapped his Mexican garb. Maria brought him the too-big Levi's and denim shirt. she had worn, and he included them in the package.

“This goes on the packhorse,” he said. “Now we must find a stable.”

“I ask,” said Maria.

Dressed in Mexican clothing, a Colt belted around her lean hips, Wes had to admit the girl might pass as a young Mexican man. While he felt better about his own chances, he still was handicapped with blue eyes. Maria had gone in search of the old Mexican woman from whom they had rented the room, and when she returned, she knew of a stable where they might put up their horses. Leaving the packsaddle in the rented room, they then led their horses to a dilapidated livery barn a hundred yards down the rutted street. This was a poor section of town, and they saw nobody. Wes had tipped the cumbersome sombrero down over his eyes to lessen the possibility of his being recognized as an American.

“I reckon there's no point in goin' back to that room,” Wes said. “Let's take a look at the town and maybe get some grub.”

Empty trotted along behind them, suspicious of this strange place. Once they reached the narrow streets lined with cafes and cantinas, Wes began to breathe a little easier, for he and Maria were dressed in the same simple fashion as were the Mexicans. Patient mules drew two-wheeled carts along cobblestone streets. Within the carts were pigs and various fowl, while young boys herded small bunches of sheep and goats. Except for an occasional beggar, all the men seemed bound for some destination. Two women stood outside what was obviously a bordello. But one thing bothered Wes. He and Maria were armed, and the belted Colts immediately set them apart. While the Mexicans avoided them, three men on the other side of the narrow street did not. Two were Anglo, while one was a half-breed, and all were dressed like the border outlaws who had gunned down Nathan Stone back in El Paso. Each wore a tied-down revolver, and they did nothing to conceal their obvious interest in the pair of
Mejicanos
who were similarly armed. The ‘breed said something, and his companions laughed.

“Don't look now,” said Wes, “but we've been discovered. We might have gotten by in Mexican clothes, but our guns are givin' us away.”

“What must we do?” Maria asked.

“Into that cantina,” said Wes. “Maybe we can work our way out the back door.”

But even as they entered the cantina, Wes turned his head just enough to see the trio crossing the street. The cantina was virtually deserted except for the little man behind the bar. Pointing to a keg on tap, Wes held up two fingers, and almost immediately before him were two glasses of vile-looking brew. There was the sound of boots on the wooden floor, as the three men entered the cantina. With his left hand, Wes took a gold coin from his pocket and dropped it on the bar.

“
Madre de Dios
,” said the Mexican bartender.

He held up both hands as though to push Wes away, his eyes on the gold coin that lay on the bar. It glinted in the faint light from a window, and Wes learned to his horror that it wasn't a coin, but a coin-sized gold medallion. There was the unmistakable likeness of a dragon on the face of it. There was a sharp intake of breath as the significance of it struck Maria. She dropped behind a table as a slug ripped into the bar where she had been standing. Wes hit the floor, rolling to his left, his Colt blazing. Slugs crashed into the bar as the trio began gunning for Wes, but his first shot was true. One of the outlaws was hit in the chest, and when Maria fired from beneath the table, her shot killed another of the trio. Wes cut down on the ‘breed, and when the slug tore into his upper torso, he dropped his weapon and bolted out the door.

“Come on,” Wes gritted.

He caught Maria's hand and they ran down a narrow corridor to the living quarters behind the cantina. There had to be a back door! When they found it—despite their need for haste—Wes eased the door open and peered out. He was looking into a narrow alley, at the backs of other cantinas and shops. There were piles of refuse, empty bottles, and a few discarded tables and chairs with missing legs. From the corner of his eye, Wes caught some movement, but it was Empty, coming on the run.

“Whatever passes for the law in this town will be here muy
pronto
,” Wes said. “Let's get out while we can.”

They ran down the alley parallel to the street from which they'd entered the cantina, Wes hoping they might reach the lodging house before there was any organized pursuit. A door suddenly opened, revealing the curious face of a Mexican. But it disappeared just as suddenly when Wes drew his Colt. Aware of the danger, Empty ran ahead of them. When they reached the next cross-street, it appeared they had escaped the congested area of the shops and cantinas. Empty had turned back to the south, the direction from which they had entered the town, and the streets seemed deserted.

“Sensato
perro
,” Maria said.

“He's smarter than I am,” said Wes. “When the shootin' started up front, he headed for the back door. Now he figures we're returning to the horses, and that's where he'll be takin' us.”

“Per'ap we hide in the lodging house,” Maria said.

“I'm hopin' you can,” said Wes, “while I lead them on a wild goose chase. I'll take all three horses, and work my way back to the lodging house after dark. If they mount heavy pursuit, I don't want them gunning you down along with me.”

“I wish to go with you,” Maria said. “Per'ap I never see you again.”

“We can't risk it,” said Wes. “That damn coin I dropped in the cantina was our undoing.”

“The image of a strange beast,” Maria said.

“A dragon,” said Wes. “It's their symbol, and since we're not part of the gang, they won't have to think long and hard to figure how and where we got it. By now they know about the seven dead outlaws in the arroyo.”

Empty led them back to the livery barn by a series of twists and turns.

“Now,” Wes said, “I want you to go back to the lodging house and stay there until I return for you. Keep the room dark. When they come looking for us, I want them to find tracks of three horses.”

She didn't want to go, and Wes watched until she entered the house. He then stepped cautiously into the barn, but saw no one. Listening, he heard a deep snore. In a stall, on a pile of hay, he found the old hostler. Dead drunk, an empty bottle lay beside him, and that suited Wes. He wouldn't be able to tell the outlaws that Wes had taken the three horses and had ridden away alone. On an upturned wooden crate there was a lantern, and beside it Wes left a coin, careful that it was genuine. If each of the seven dead outlaws had been in possession of one of the devilish medallions, that meant there were at least six more of the golden emblems among the coins Wes had shared with Maria. Quickly, Wes saddled his grulla and Maria's black. The bay still resisted the packsaddle, but Wes calmed him enough to accept his burden. With the bay and the black on lead ropes, Wes rode south. He chose a trail across open ground, leaving abundant tracks for the outlaws to follow. Time enough to lose them once he had led them away from Maria. Once away from the town and into a concealing forest, Wes turned north, seeking the mountains he had seen earlier. He circled the town, always looking back, but there was no pursuit. That bothered him, along with the growing realization he could—and should—have brought Maria with him. Waiting for darkness, he sorted through the gold coins he had taken from the dead outlaws until he found four of the dragon's head medallions. Curious, he turned one over and found a number three. Quickly he looked at the others, and they were identical. He had no doubt the dragon's head symbolized the murderous outlaws, but what of the number—a three—on the opposite side? Uneasily, he waited until the shadows fell before making his way to the distant town. While he had left an obvious trail, there had been no pursuit. That, with Maria on his mind, was enough to arouse a sense of foreboding. Keeping to the shadows, Empty trotting alongside, he rode to the back of the lodging house. There he left the three horses, Empty remaining with them. The back door of the rambling old house wasn't even bolted, and he caught his breath when he stepped into the hall. The place was dark except for a wedge of light from beneath a single door—the door to the room where Maria was to be waiting. And Maria was there. What was left of her. On a nightstand beside the bed a lamp burned. Maria had been stripped and spread-eagled on the bed, her body a bloody mass of knife wounds. They had tortured her before finally slitting her throat. Wide open, her sightless eyes begged in mute appeal for mercy that had been denied. Her mouth hung open, her lips frozen in a silent scream of pain and terror. Wes ground his teeth in fury, cursing himself for a fool. On the nightstand—if he needed proof—was one of the gold medallions with the dragon's head. The bastards
wanted
him to know they had murdered Maria, and they hadn't followed him because they expected him to return. He knew then what he should have suspected. He had walked into a deadly trap! Empty began barking furiously, all the assurance he needed that the outlaws were waiting for him to break for his horses. Quickly he blew out the lamp. Even as he approached the window, it shattered in a tinkling crash. Lead slammed into the wall and sang off the bed's brass frame. There was but one way out, and that was through the door and into the hall. The old house had a second floor, and Wes remembered the stairway in the hall. On hands and knees he crept through the door, only to have the hall floor creak. Immediately, from the end of the hall, there was the roar from three different weapons. Lead whipping over his head, Wes fired three times at muzzle flashes. There were groans of pain, gaining him a few seconds to get to the stairs. They creaked badly, but his pursuers didn't know he had left the hall, and there was more shooting. Reaching an upper hall, Wes made his way toward the rear of the house. He hoped there might be a door leading to an upper balcony, but there was neither. Quickly he felt his way along the wall, searching for a door. Finding one, he stepped into a room where there was a window. But when he attempted to open it, the casing wouldn't budge. It seemed to be nailed shut. In the dim light from the window, he could see a bed, and beside it, a nightstand. Seizing the nightstand by two of its legs, he used it to smash the window, frame and all. There were curtains, and the sudden draft sucked the loose ends of them out the window. The room being at the very rear of the house, the ceiling had begun to slope downward with the contour of the roof. The window was close enough for Wes, standing on the sill, to grasp the edge of the tiled roof. But the breaking glass had attracted the attention of the outlaws, and as Wes scrambled for the roof, lead began ripping into the side of the house.

“The bastard's on the roof!” one of the outlaws shouted.

But Wes reached the roof, and the shouting below had the desired effect. Men joined their comrades below the smashed window. By the time Wes had crept to the very end of the gabled roof, he was able to step down to the roof that sheltered a back porch. Empty was still barking from a distance, which told Wes one or more of the outlaws had stayed with the horses. The hound either saw or sensed Wes at the roof's edge and came surging in, growling viciously. Startled, the outlaw who had remained with the horses began firing, but only got off one shot. Colt in hand, Wes came down astraddle him, clubbing him unconscious. In an instant, Wes was in the saddle, kicking the grulla into a gallop. His Colt in his right hand, he seized the bay's lead rope in his left. The black nickered, but with Maria gone, there was no need for it. The outlaws rounded the comer of the house and began firing. Wes fired only twice, for he hadn't had time to reload and his Colt was empty. He holstered the weapon and rode for his life.

“Damn it,” said Wooten, chief of the outlaws, “he's gone.”

“That ain't the worst of it,” said one of his companions. “Klady, Snell, an' Hutchinson is dead, an' Tasby's hard hit.”

“Anybody else hurt?” Wooten asked.

The Indian gunman, El Lobo, laughed.

“What's so damned funny?” Wooten demanded.

“Do not forget Zouks and Wroe, who die in the cantina,” said El Lobo. “One of them by the hand of a Mejicano squaw.”

“Kazman will have to be told of this,” Wooten said. “He'll want to know just how in hell this slippery varmint managed to escape from a house and gun down three men, while ten of you failed to get a slug in him.”

“Eleven of us,” said one of the outlaws angrily. “You was here with us.”