The Border Empire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  From Frank Leslie

  THREE AGAINST TERROR

  They were all riding deeper and closer to the evil empire’s first outpost, carved by the Sandlin gang out of mountain and desert.

  One was Wes Stone, his father’s son down to his lightning hands and the Colts in his greased holsters.

  Another was the girl Maria, a victim of a brutal attack, now seeking revenge.

  The other, a bandito named El Lobo, who had his own score to settle with men whose crimes sickened even an outlaw like him.

  There were three of them—and against them countless killers under the command of a monstrous mastermind who had never been outsmarted or outfought. The numbers were bad—but the hunting would be good.

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, July 1997

  Copyright © Ralph Compton, 1997

  All rights reserved

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Prologue

  Austin, Texas. June 25, 1884

  “Come in, Wes Stone,” said Texas Ranger Bodie West. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You’ve heard, then,” Wes said.

  “That you’re the son of Nathan Stone,” said West. “I suspected as much the first time I ever saw you. You’re the very image of him.”

  “A damned shame somebody didn’t tell me about him before he was lying dead in the streets of El Paso,” Wes said. “I’ve taken his weapons and his name, and before God, I’ll track down the bunch that killed him. They’re going to die. To the last man.”

  “I can understand your feelings,” said West. “What became of Nathan’s dog?”

  “Empty’s with my horse,” Wes said. “He followed me from El Paso, but I still don’t have his confidence. I reckon I’m a poor second to Nathan Stone.”

  “Give him time,” said West. “He’s an intelligent animal.”

  “I want to know everything you can tell me about my father,” Wes said.

  “It’s strange that you should arrive at this particular time,” said West. “Byron Silver is in town, from Washington. He probably knew Nathan Stone better than any man alive. I know he’ll want to meet you. How long do you plan to stay?”

  “As long as it takes to learn about my father,” Wes said.

  “Then you’d better take advantage of havin’ Silver and me here at the same time,” said West. “Many of the men who knew Nathan—King Fisher, Ben Thompson, Wild Bill Hickok—are dead. Why don’t you have supper with Silver and me? Then we’ll come back here to the office, make a pot of coffee ...”

  “I’d like that,” Wes said.

  “We’ll be at the Star Cafe, at five,” said West.

  Bodie West stared at the door for a long time after Wes had gone, struck by the uncanny likeness of the young man to his father. West was familiar with the Sandlin gang, the outlaws who had gunned down Nathan Stone. The gang hung out below the border, in Old Mexico, and it was against international law for an American to venture there. Should young Wes cross the Rio Grande, his life wouldn’t be worth a plugged peso, nor could he expect help from his own land. But Wes was the very image of his father, and Nathan Stone would have crossed the border without a moment’s hesitation.

  Texas Ranger Bodie West and Byron Silver got to their feet as Wes Stone entered the cafe.

  “Silver,” said West, “this is Wes, Nathan’s son.”

  “My God,” Silver said. “You’re Nathan Stone all over again.”

  He offered his hand and Wes took it. He didn’t look in the least like Wes had thought he might. He looked to be in his late thirties, with gray eyes, and his black hair had some silver at the temples. His Stetson was flat-crowned, with silver conchos. The rest of his attire was that of a Texas cowboy, down to his run-over boots.

  “You don’t look much like I expected,” said Wes.

  Silver laughed. “I’m just a Texas cowboy at heart, but I just never took to wrasslin’ cows. I’d heard of you, but didn’t know how to reach you. It’s mighty fortunate, me bein’ here. I hope you’ll be as much a friend to me as your daddy was.”

  “I hope so, too,” Wes said. “I want to know as much about him as you can tell me.”

  “That’ll be a lot,” said Silver. “Do you have Nathan’s watch?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wes replied. “That, his Colts, his Winchester, and his name.”

  “There’s a story behind that watch,” said Silver. “Nathan and me come within a gnat’s eyelash of gettin’ ourselves killed. I got ventilated, and Nathan finished the job alone.”1

  Silver talked for an hour. Bodie West, hearing the story for the first time, listened in rapt attention. Young Wes Stone sat spellbound, his eyes aflame with excitement. There was a long moment of silence
when Silver had finished.

  “I never got all the facts,” Bodie West said, “because Nathan wouldn’t talk about it, but we pieced the story together. Captain Sage Jennings, one of the finest Texas Rangers who ever lived, was shot in the back. He was left paralyzed, unable to move, but he still had one thing going for him. Nathan Stone was his friend, and Nathan went after the bushwhacker. We don’t know how many weeks or months Nathan was on the trail, but we do know that the hombre that shot Captain Jennings paid with his life.“2

  “That explains the ranger shield my father had,” said Wes.

  “Yes,” West said. “He never wore the badge himself, although I wanted him to. When Captain Jennings died, he wanted Nathan to have that shield, and I presented it to him.”

  Having finished their meal, the trio returned to Bodie West’s small office. There, the two men took turns relating to Wes the legends that surrounded Nathan Stone. Far into the night they talked, until they were interrupted by a scratching at the door. When West opened the door, a gaunt hound trotted into the room. Empty, Nathan’s dog, had been there before. He looked at West and then at Silver, for he knew them both. He then lay down beside Wes Stone’s chair.

  “He’s beginning to accept you,” said West. “Nathan would be pleased.”

  “I’m obliged to both of you,” Wes said. “All I have of my father is what I’ve learned from those of you who knew him. I don’t know when—or if—I’ll see either of you again. Tomorrow I’m riding after my father’s killers.”

  “The Sandlin gang,” said Bodie West. “They’ll kill you and relish every moment of it.”

  “I know,” Wes replied. “There’s a price on my head. But Nathan Stone died for me, and if that’s what it takes, I can do no less for him.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Silver, “but I’m not sure Nathan would approve of that. I learned, over the years, that he came west riding a vengeance trail. I know he gunned down seven men, and they all deserved to die. But it changed Nathan’s life in a way that he wasn’t able to accept. He was lightning-quick with a pistol, drawing with either hand, but it was a blessing and a curse. He was blessed with a skill that kept him alive, but was cursed with the need to defend his reputation as a fast gun. He can’t speak for himself, so I’m speaking for him. I don’t believe he’d want that kind of life for you.”

  “I reckon not,” Wes said. “My mother died the day I was born, goin’ to her grave without me or anybody else knowin’ my father was Nathan Stone. Somehow, he knew. But he respected her wishes and kept it from me. After he was dead, Molly Horrell told me the truth. I understand my mother’s reasoning, and my father’s respect for her, but when the trail forks, a man must make his own decision. I’ve made mine.”

  “Nathan Stone couldn’t have said it better,” Silver said, “but as you know, I represent the attorney general’s office, and I have to warn you that it’s a violation of international law for you to ride into Mexico for the purpose you have in mind.”

  “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.