The Border Empire (17 page)

“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 each 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.

Wes and El Lobo rode south at first light, bound for Mazatlán. Wes intentionally rode down into the foothills paralleling the bay. El Lobo looked at him questioningly.

“We'll travel at a lower elevation,” Wes said. “It'll be easier goin', and when we're far enough from town, I aim to send another telegraph message. I can do that while we rest the horses.”

While El Lobo had said nothing, Wes knew he was impatient. The one thing Hernando Delmano hadn't said in the newspaper story was how much time had elapsed since Tamara had disappeared. It all depended on how swiftly the outlaws smuggled their human cargo out of Mexico. The only real hope Wes had was that the girl had been taken within the last three or four days. The turmoil his telegraph message had caused might have delayed the sailing ship that would have taken Tamara away. They followed the meandering telegraph line until it was time to rest the horses. El Lobo watched with interest as Wes took the telegraph key from his saddlebag and attached the climbing hooks to his boots. Swiftly he climbed a pole and patched the instrument into the wire. He asked for and received permission to send, and without knowing with whom he had made contact, sent his message:

Quickly Wes broke the connection, climbed down the pole, and returned the equipment to his saddlebags.

“What telegraph say?” El Lobo asked.

“It told the Sandlin gang we're comin' after them,” said Wes. “That first message got so much attention, I felt like we owed 'em another. I figure the newspaper people will be roosting pretty close to every telegraph office in the country. If this second message hits as hard as the first, that bunch of owlhoots in Durango ought to be pretty well spooked by the time we get there.”

El Lobo said nothing. They mounted and rode on, stopping only to rest the horses. It was near sundown when they unsaddled their horses and made camp near a spring. There was a light wind from the south, and from somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

“Easy, old son,” Wes said when Empty's hackles rose.

“Not be Mazatlán,” said El Lobo. “Per'ap this time
mañana.”

After supper, they stretched out, heads on their saddles, and listened to their horses cropping grass.

“I reckon it's none of my business,” Wes said, “but you've never told me your given name. I can't imagine your ma naming you El Lobo.”

He was silent for so long, Wes thought he had become angry. Finally he laughed.

“My mother call me Palo Elfego, after my wandering father. I hate the name as much as I hate him. I take the name Wolf—El Lobo—for myself.”

“I can't say I blame you,” said Wes. “The name becomes you.”

 

They rode out at dawn, and soon they could see a village below.

“More sailing ships,” Wes said. “What town do you reckon this is?”
¹⁶

“Not know,” said El Lobo.

When Dolan Watts and his men reached the outpost at Durango, more than five hundred of the Sandlin outlaws had gathered there. While most of the men paid no attention, the arrival of Dolan Watts was noted with interest by Brodie Fentress and Denton Rucker. Fentress,
segundo
of the Durango outpost, and Rucker, his second in command, waited for Watts and his men to dismount.

“So you're the daddy of this snake-stompin',” Fentress said. “I reckon you've seen the papers an' know what the telegraph's spreadin' all over the country.”

“Yeah,” said Watts. “How many of our outfits are here?”

“Less than half,” Fentress said sourly. “What do you aim to do about the others?”

“Wait for them,” said Watts, just as sourly. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” Fentress replied, “but Black Bill Trevino likely will. He's on his way here from Mexico City.”

“Then let him come,” said Watts recklessly. “I'll step aside and he can appoint anybody he chooses—includin' you—to take command of this outfit. Somethin' had to be done, and if the rest of you don't like the moves I've made, then by God, I'll back off. Do it your way.”

Before Fentress could respond, there was the thump of hoofbeats, a rider coming at a fast gallop. He swung out of the saddle, a wad of newspapers in his hand.

“Brodie, the Durango paper just come out, and there's another telegram from them
hombres
that's out to get us.”

Silently, Fentress took the paper and unfolded it. The entire front page was devoted to the mysterious duo who had begun the destruction of the Sandlin gang. In addition to the threatening text of the second telegraph message, there was the text of the first, along with all the damning information that had appeared previously.

“By God,” said Rucker, “if this goes on, gunnin' down these two
hombres
will be the least of our troubles. We'll have to fight all of Mexico.”

“That's the truth if I ever heard it,” Fentress said. “These Mexes used to be scared to death of us, and now they're laughing at us. Where in tarnation do we start lookin' for the pair of varmints that started all this?”

All eyes were on Dolan Watts, and he had no answers.

Wes and El Lobo reached the village in the late afternoon, and El Lobo pointed out the Delmano residence. By Mexican standards, it was a mansion. Despite El Lobo's obvious interest in Tamara Delmano, he seemed reluctant to face her father.

“Come on,” Wes said, “and let's get this behind us. The worst he can do is ask us to leave.”

They dismounted and, leading their horses, approached the big house with the white columns and spacious grounds. They had been seen. The grim man who stood waiting for them was dressed in black, his arms folded across his chest.

“That be Hernando Delmano,” said El Lobo.

Their welcome was much as El Lobo had predicted.

“Palo Elfego, you are not welcome here,” Delmano said.

“I come only for word of Tamara,” said El Lobo, “and then I go. When she be taken by outlaws?”

“Five days ago,” Delmano said. “Now go.”

“You don't show much concern for your daughter,” said Wes. “What kind of man are you?”

“A private one,” Delmano said, “and I do not welcome strangers who interfere where they are not wanted. Who are you, and what is your business here?”

“I am here with my
amigo,”
said Wes, “and his concern is my own. We seek to find and rescue your daughter, Tamara. Not for your sake, but for hers.”

“Then go,” Delmano said, “and take with you my pity for your unfortunate choice of friends.”

Wes and El Lobo had no choice. Mounting their horses, they rode back the way they had come. While Delmano's hostility had come as no surprise, El Lobo was obviously dejected.

“I only want to save Tamara,” said El Lobo, “and still he hate me.”

“That old busardo needs some holes poked in him, lettin' the pride leak out,” Wes replied. “If we can return Tamara to him, maybe it'll change his feelings toward you.”

“I not know where to look for her.”

“In the last four or five days, we've raised hell and kicked a chunk under it,” said Wes, “and I'm thinkin' that might have slowed the slave trade some. Tamara may still be in these parts. Maybe in Mazatlán.”

“Per'ap,” El Lobo said without much enthusiasm.

“We'll start in Mazatlán,” said Wes. “If there's a whorehouse and it's under the control of the Sandlin gang, then maybe we can learn something there.”

El Lobo said nothing. Now that the search for Tamara Delmano had begun, he seemed fearful of what they might discover.

Wes and El Lobo reached Mazatlán in the late afternoon. It was larger than any of the coastal towns they had passed along the way, and four sailing ships were at the dock. One of them was being loaded for departure. A Mexican flag fluttered from its mast.

“That could be a slave ship gettin' ready to leave,” Wes said. “I reckon we got no time to lose. Let's find that whorehouse.”

It was a time when such places were prominent, usually found in a part of town with an abundance of cheap cafes, run-down rooming houses, and cantinas. Mazatlán was no different. The place was a two-story affair near the waterfront, and a faded sign proclaimed it the CASA DE SEÑORITAS.