The Border Empire (13 page)

“He can go,” Wes shouted back.

“Not so fast, Doc,” Tazlo said. “First you tell us what more we can do for this man that's been shot. We're in no position to ride to town lookin' for you.”

“Give him whiskey,” said Hernandez. “There is nothing more anyone can do.”

“Hell, we ain't got but two bottles of whiskey,” Yokum said, “an' we'll likely need it ourselves.”

They said nothing about payment for the doctor's services, and he, being allowed to escape with his life, didn't ask. Easing the door open, he stepped out. When there was no gunfire, he hurriedly untied his mule, mounted the wagon box, and drove away.

It was still early when Skull Rudabaugh rode out of Nogales, bound for El Desemboque. After posting the letters, Skull would be riding to Hermosillo, but the more Watts thought about it, the more uneasy he became. So far, two of the Sandlin outposts had been totally destroyed, and it appeared that Hermosillo might become the third. Nothing was being done to counter the devastating attacks, but what
could
be done? Guaymos was less than a hundred miles south of Hermosillo. There might yet be time to send a force from Guaymos, if the right man were in charge. Suddenly the inspiration he sought came to him. Skull Rudabaugh! Skull would be riding to Hermosillo after leaving El Desemboque, but Skull was just one man, and by the time he reached Hermosillo, it would be too late. But suppose skull took a sailing ship directly to Guaymos and then led a force from there to Hermosillo?

Guaymos had already been alerted to danger; now he must alert them to the arrival of Skull Rudabaugh and the need for men to ride to Hermosillo. Quickly he composed a telegram to Guaymos, and a second for Skull when he reached El Desemboque.

 

Riding at a slow gallop and resting his horse often, Skull Rudabaugh reached the dock at El Desemboque before dark. Fortunately, a sailing ship was loading for ports south. The telegrapher's shack was near the dock, and Skull tied his horse there. He was often there to intercept goods on incoming ships and was known to the telegrapher, who now beckoned to him. “Telegram fer you.”

Skull took the message. It was brief:

The message was unsigned, but only Dolan Watts had known Skull was bound for El Desemboque. There was just time for Skull to book passage for himself and his horse. They would reach Guaymos during the night. If Wurzback didn't waste any time, there was a possibility that Skull and a force of fighting men might reach Hermosillo shortly after dawn. Skull could think of only one possible difficulty. There had always been bad blood between himself and Stem Wurzback, the Sandlin
segundo
at Guaymos. Stem would purely raise hell at the prospect of sending his men to Hermosillo with Skull leading them. There was no help for it, however, and Skull prepared himself for an unwelcome and probably ugly reception.

 

Within the outlaw cabin near Hermosillo, there was little conversation. The wounded Burke Packer lay unmoving, and only his ragged breathing told them he still lived. There was less than two hours of daylight remaining, and none of the men had any illusions as to what the night might bring. Blake said what they all were thinking.

“Soon as it's dark enough, we got to make a run for our horses.”

“We do,” Tazlo said, “then we'll have to get to ‘em ahead of that jasper with the rifle. All he's got to do is spook the horses and we're dead men. We don't have enough water to make coffee in the mornin'. Give the sun two hours—if we're still alive—and it'll be hotter in here than seven kinds of hell, without water.”

Burke Packer groaned and all conversation ceased. He cut his eyes to right and left as far as he could, and when he finally spoke, they could barely hear him.

“Hanson ...
^?
”

“Hanson's dead,” said Blake.

“The ... ambush ...”

“Wasn't no ambush,” Blake said. “Them
hombres
went after you an' Hanson like hell wouldn't have it. They cut you down an' was gone ‘fore we was in position to flank 'em or git behind 'em.”

“Didn't ... some of ... you ... trail them?”

“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 ...

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 Dolan 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.”