The Border Empire (2 page)

“I know that,” said Wes. “Bodie's made it clear enough. But how is the Sandlin bunch to pay for their crimes? Do you expect them to ride into Texas and surrender?”

“Hardly,” Silver replied, “but there's that damned agreement with Mexico.”

“We're supposed to respect their sovereignty,” said West, “while their government sells out to thieves and killers who have only to cross the border to escape the law.”

“That's the truth, if I ever heard it,” Wes said. “I saw it happen in El Paso, and if it hadn't been for this sacred, one-sided agreement Washington has with Mexico, my father might be alive today.”

“I can't argue with that,” said Silver. “I'm only reminding you that, legally, our hands are tied. When you cross the border, there won't be a lot we can do to help you.”

“I haven't asked for any help,” Wes said. “Under similar circumstances,” said West, “neither would Nathan Stone.”

“While I can't promise any help,” Silver said, “I can be sure that you know all that I can tell you about the Sandlin gang and the power behind them.”

“They're a bunch of thieves and killers,” Wes said. “What more is there to know?”

“While Sandlin's bunch is primarily engaged in rustling and wanton murder,” Silver replied, “they're only part of an unsavory crime ring that's protected by corrupt Mexican officials. There are ties all the way to Mexico City, where there are powerful men who are virtually untouchable. In Washington, this unholy coalition is secretly referred to as the Border Empire, because they operate on both sides of the border. They are engaged in white slavery, counterfeiting, smuggling, and you name it.”

“There is no law in Mexico, then,” said Wes.

“Oh, there's law,” Silver said, “but it's sold out to powerful criminal interests. You'll be branded an outlaw, as much in danger from Mexican police and the army as from the Sandlin gang. In his prime, Nathan Stone never rode into a nest of rattlers such as you're considering.”

“I'm obliged for what you've told me,” said Wes, “but I don't aim to go after every sidewinder in Mexico. I only want the Sandlin gang.”

“You still don't get the drift of what Silver's saying,” Bodie West said. “While you're looking for the Sandlin gang, every thief and killer in Mexico will be looking for you. You can't go after part of the Empire without all of it coming after you.”

“That's it,” said Silver.

“Anybody comin' between me and the Sandlin gang does so at his own risk,” Wes said. “If everybody's against me, I won't have to be picky about who I shoot, will I?”

“I reckon you'd better keep that in mind,” said Silver. “You're closer to the truth than you realize.”

“I'll do that,” Wes said. “Bodie, Mr. Silver, I'm obliged.'”

With that, he was out the door, the hound following.

“God, I wish there was something we could do to keep the young rooster alive,” said Silver. “Somebody to watch his back.”

“So do I,” West said, “but we no longer have an informant anywhere south of the border. The last one had his throat slit last year.”

 

Removing only his hat, gunbelt, and boots, Wes lay down across the hotel bed. Not to sleep, for he doubted that he could. Empty sat on the oval rug, his eyes on Wes. Already there was a little of the companionship between the two that the hound had shared with Nathan Stone. While Empty knew Nathan was gone, he was drawn to this young man who had Nathan's weapons, who rode the same trails Nathan had ridden, and was like Nathan in so many ways. Wes had taken to speaking to the dog, a habit that had been strong in Nathan, and it had done much to win Empty's trust. Wes sat up on the bed and ruffled the dog's ears.

“Empty, I reckon we left West and Silver on a sour note, but there was no help for it. I swore an oath on my father's grave, and I aim to keep it.”

There was a rumble deep in Empty's throat that wasn't quite a growl. It was more a sound of agreement, of understanding. Wes stretched out on the bed, while Empty curled up on the rug beside him.

 

Wes and Empty had an early breakfast. Afterward, Wes stopped at a bootmaker's shop with a special request of the cobbler. Inside the top of his left boot, he had a sewn-in, all-but-invisible leather pocket in which he concealed the Ranger's shield and the watch that had belonged to his father. Inside the top of his right boot, he had sewn in a thick leather sheath for a knife. Into it he inserted a throwing knife, with a slender haft and a heavier blade. A friendly Mexican in El Paso had taught him to throw the deadly weapon, and he had mastered it to perfection. It appeared he was going to need every skill he possessed as he rode the vengeance trail south of the border.

Outside the bootmaker's shop, as Wes was about to mount his horse, a cold voice spoke from behind him.

“I'm callin' you, bucko. Turn around an' draw.” Carefully keeping his hands away from his Colt, Wes turned to face the challenger. The kid wasn't more than a year or two older than Wes, and his weapon was thonged down on his right hip.

“I have no fight with you,” Wes said. “I never saw you before in my life.”

“No, but I saw
you,”
said his antagonist. “Struttin' around in Dodge, when you was with the railroad. I saw you draw, an' you ain't no great shakes with a gun. I know I can beat you.”

Bodie West and Byron Silver had just left a cafe where they'd had breakfast, and were across the street. Other men, careful to stay out of the line of fire, had suddenly gathered to witness the deadly ordeal between Wes Stone and his unknown challenger. Wes tried one more time to avoid the fight.

“Back off,” Wes said. “I don't want to fight you.”

“Well, I ain't givin' you a choice.”

Not a man on the street later remembered seeing Wes Stone draw. The challenger had pulled iron first, and his weapon had cleared leather before Wes made his move. Suddenly a flaming Colt was in his hand, and the foolish young man who had called him lay dead, his weapon unfired.

“He called me,” Wes said. “I had no choice.”

The men who had seen it nodded. Only Bodie West spoke.

“It was more than fair. Ride on.”

Wes mounted and rode south, Empty following.

“He's Nathan Stone all over again,” said Silver. “Right down to the curse.”

“Yes,” West agreed. “All our warnings to the contrary are too late. The die is cast.”

Wes rode wide of San Antonio. In Uvalde, he bought a packhorse and a packsaddle. Deep in Old Mexico, where every man's hand might be against him, he doubted that there would be supplies when he needed them, and certainly no ammunition for his Winchester and Colts. He knew the risk of a well-provisioned packhorse, for Mexico was a poor land in which only a few did not live on the ragged edge of starvation. Even without a price on his head, men would kill him for the horse he rode, while a loaded packhorse added to that danger many times over. But there was no help for it. Leaving Uvalde, Wes rode west to Eagle Pass, where he would cross the border. He had only a crude map of Old Mexico. The same friendly Mexican who had taught Wes to throw a knife had also drawn the map, for which Wes had paid him a double eagle. It had only major cities and rivers, and there was a possibility, Wes decided, that it would be of little use to him. During his months in El Paso, he had heard continual references to Namiquipa, a village where the Sandlin gang reportedly corraled rustled horses and cattle. Wes knew that Namiquipa was somewhere to the northwest of the town of Chihuahua, which was some two hundred miles south of El Paso. That the Sandlin gang had men posted at strategic points along the border, Wes had no doubt. With that in mind, his plan was to cross the border near the village of Eagle Pass, where it was unlikely he would be noticed. He must then travel west. Rather than go directly to Namiquipa, he would first go to Chihuahua. He counted it unlikely that the Sandlin gang would expect an American enemy to approach from the south. But his edge—the element of surprise—would last only until Sandlin's bunch received word there was an armed gringo in town. But it was the only plan he had, and swallowing hard, he trotted his grulla across the stream that was the Rio Grande. His packhorse—a bay—had not become used to the packsaddle, and he fought the lead rope. He kept trying to snake his head around, to see what the contraption was that was roped to his back.

“Come on, boy,” Wes implored. “The packsaddle won't hurt you.”

Wes rode well beyond the border before turning west, careful to avoid the Rio Grande lest he encounter soldiers or sentries for outlaw bands. He had traveled only a few miles when he saw smoke ahead. He reined up, and the hound sat down, an inquiring look on his face.

“Empty,” said Wes, “it's mighty early in the day for a cook fire.”

On impulse, Wes pointed to the distant smoke, and to his total surprise, Empty took a few steps in that direction. He looked back, as though uncertain, and again Wes pointed to the smoke. Reassured, Empty disappeared in the brush. Wes took the opportunity to rest the grulla and the bay, wondering how Empty—if he had gone to investigate the smoke—would convey his findings. He soon learned. Empty trotted within a few paces of Wes and paused. There was that sound—somewhere between a bark and a growl—and he turned back the way he had come. Wes mounted his horse and, leading the packhorse, followed. Occasionally, Empty waited until Wes caught up, and then went on. The clearing was just large enough to accommodate a small cabin, a shed, and a pole corral. Beneath the shake roof of the shed stood a mule, and when it sighted the two horses, the animal began braying a noisy welcome. Smoke trailed up from the cabin's stick-and-mud chimney. From behind the cabin a Mexican emerged. Apparently he was unarmed.

“
Buenos dias, señor.”

“Buenos dias,”
Wes responded.
“En paz.”

“Si,” said the Mexican. “I am Pancho Gomez. It is only Maria and me. We wish no one harm.”

“Nor do I,” Wes said. “I am Wes Stone.”

“Bienvenido,”
said Gomez. “We are poor,
señor.
There is pulque and goat's milk.”

“Señor Gomez,” Wes said, “there's coffee in my pack, and I'll share it with you and Maria.”

Maria's curiosity had gotten the best of her, and she stood in the doorway, her dark eyes on Wes. When she spoke, there was something akin to awe in her voice.

“Pancho, it is the
compañero
of the Senor King Fisher, but more the
niño.”

Gomez removed his wide-brim straw hat and took a closer look at Wes.

“Madre
de Dios,” he breathed, taking a step backward.

“My father, Nathan Stone, was a
compañero
to King Fisher,” said Wes.

“Espectro,”
Gomez said, still unconvinced.

“The
niño
of the Senor Stone,” said Maria.

“Sí,”
Wes replied, pursuing his advantage. “The Señor King Fisher is
muerto.
So is my father, Nathan Stone.”

Gomez crossed himself, removed his sombrero, and bowed. Wes dismounted, looping the reins of both horses around a pole that supported the cabin's stoop roof. Removing an extra two-pound bag of coffee beans from his saddlebag, he presented them to Maria.

“Gracias,”
said Maria.

All the furnishings within the cabin were crude and handmade, but the interior was meticulously clean. Maria stirred up the fire within the stove. She wrapped a handful of the coffee beans in a clean cloth and began crushing them with a wooden mallet. Gomez nodded toward the kitchen table. Wes drew out a chair and sat down, Gomez taking a seat across from him.

“Señor Gomez,” said Wes, “what can you tell me about my father, Nathan Stone?”

“He come with the Senor King Fisher to hunt the wild horse,” Gomez replied. “Per'ap you come to hunt the wild ones, also?”
³

“No,” said Wes. “I seek the
bandidos
who murdered my father, Nathan Stone. They steal and kill both north and south of the border. You have heard of the Sandlin gang?”

“Dios!” Gomez said fearfully.
“Por Dios!”

“You know of them, then,” said Wes.

“They are everywhere,
señor,”
Gomez replied. “The very walls of the
cantinas
are the eyes and the ears of these sons of el
Diablo.”

“I know them, Señor Gomez, and they know me,” said Wes. “They have put a price on my head. I am riding to Namiquipa, where I have heard they may be found.”

“Sí,”
Gomez replied. “They are there, in Ciudad Juarez ; Chihuahua, Hermosillo—”

“And Mexico City,” said Wes.

The coffee was ready, and when Maria placed the tin cups on the table, her eyes met those of Pancho. The look of fear that passed between them wasn't lost on Wes.

“I have talk too much,
senor,”
Gomez said hastily.

“Your words will go no farther than my ears, Señor Gomez,” said Wes.

But they were afraid. Gomez gripped the edge of the table with his hands to stay their trembling. Maria peered out the kitchen's single window as though she expected the devil and all his minions to appear at any moment. Wes downed his coffee at a single gulp and stood up. He spoke to the old
Mejicano
and his wife as kindly as he could.

“For your hospitality and for telling me of my father,” said Wes, “
gracias
.”

Wes made his way out of the humble cabin and mounted his horse.