The Border Empire Page 3

  “They ride in at dawn,” said Maria.

  “We’re a good five hours behind them,” Wes said.

  They rode on, traveling more slowly, for the grulla was carrying double. Empty ran far ahead, for he still didn’t trust the stranger who had taken the horse. While Wes didn’t confide in the girl, there was a chance they might catch up to the outlaws sometime after dark. Wes had no doubt that these thieves and killers were part of the Sandlin gang, so he would take no chances when he eventually faced them. He was a little uneasy, because he had no idea how Maria Armijo might react. If her fury again got the best of her and she gave away their presence, Wes might find himself outgunned. He might quickly become the hunted instead of the hunter if even one of the outlaws escaped.

  “We’re going to stop before dark, cook some food, and eat,” Wes said.

  “We be close enough for them to see the fire in the night,” said Maria.

  “Maybe,” Wes said cautiously. He didn’t want her getting ideas.

  They reached a stream where the outlaws had watered their horses, and many of the tracks where the animals had left the water weren’t entirely dry. The bunch wasn’t more than an hour ahead, Wes decided, and darkness was only an hour away. He dismounted and helped Maria down. By the time he had removed the packsaddle and unsaddled the grulla, Empty had doubled back. His hackles rose, and he regarded Maria with anything but friendliness.

  “The perro does not like me,” Maria said.

  “He hasn’t forgotten you took my horse,” said Wes. “Behave yourself, and he’ll get over it.”

  Choosing wood carefully, Wes built an almost smokeless fire. Filling the coffeepot with water, he put it on to boil, while he sliced thick slabs of bacon into his skillet. Maria watched with interest.

  “I reckon you’re hungry,” Wes said. “Sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  When the coffee was ready, he filled a tin cup and presented it to her.

  “Coffee,” said Wes.

  “Gracias,” Maria said. “I have tasted it only once in my life.”

  Empty came near only to accept his portion of the bacon. Wes doused the fire before sundown, and when it was dark enough, he made his move.

  “I’m going to find that outlaw camp,” he said. “I want you to remain here until I return.”

  “No,” she said defiantly. “I go with you.”

  “You will remain here,” Wes said, just as stubbornly. “Empty will be scouting ahead, and you make him nervous.”

  Wes mounted the grulla and rode- out, Empty taking the lead. Less than an hour’s ride brought them close enough to the outlaw camp for Empty to double back. Wes reined up, dallying the grulla’s reins about a convenient limb. There was no moon, but the starlight was sufficient for Wes to keep Empty in sight. While there was no sign of a fire, the smell of woodsmoke was strong. Wes moved on cautiously. The bunch had apparently holed up in an arroyo, for they had no reason to expect pursuit. Wes had his Winchester, but he suddenly wished he had brought the second of Nathan Stone’s Colts, which he had buried among his provisions. The Winchester would have to do. Empty growled softly, his warning to Wes. Creeping to the rim of the arroyo, Wes could see the outlaws gathered around the fire. Suddenly they leaped to their feet, hands darting to holstered weapons. Just as suddenly, they relaxed, laughing. Into the mouth of the arroyo walked Maria, just as naked as the moment Wes had found her! Her hands were behind her back, and while still in the shadows, she paused.

  “Well, by God,” one of the outlaws exulted, “the little catamount didn’t get enough of us this mornin’. She’s follered us, wantin’ more, an’ I aim to be the first to oblige her.”

  He started toward her, and the rest of them followed, laughing in anticipation. Wes held his fire, fearing any move he made would be the death of the girl. But Maria Armijo had come prepared to take her revenge. Behind her back, she clutched the second of the Colts that had belonged to Nathan Stone. Four times she fired, the shots blending into a continuous roar. Four of the outlaws were down, and before the remaining three could pull their guns, the Winchester was blazing. The horses reared and nickered, but Maria Armijo stood there calmly, the Colt in her hand. Wes slid and half fell into the arroyo. Maria just looked at him, a half-smile on her lips.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Wes stormed. “You could have been killed.”

  “Sí,” she said calmly, “but I do not know of your debt to them. I know only of my own. My regret is that I did not kill them all.”

  “Damn it,” said Wes, “there was only five shells in the Colt. You couldn’t possibly have shot more than five of them. If I hadn’t been on the rim, one of them would have shot you dead. Where are your clothes?”

  “I leave them with your other horse,” she said.

  “I reckon I’ll have to give you some credit,” said Wes. “What they got was the last thing they expected.”

  “What become of the many horses they steal?”

  “We’ll free them to return to their home corrals,” Wes said. “We’ll free the outlaws’ mounts, too, except for that black. He doesn’t seem to have a brand. We’ll take one of the saddles, and the black will become your horse. We might as well see what else we can use, that this bunch of varmints won’t be needin’ anymore.”

  She crossed herself. “You would rob the dead?”

  “I would,” said Wes. “You accounted for four of them, so don’t go preaching at me.”

  To his total surprise, she laughed.

  “Do what you wish, Senor Wes Stone. I will tell the black horse that he is mine, and that I am his bueno amigo.”

  Wes, going through the pockets and saddlebags of the dead outlaws, discovered more than a thousand dollars in gold coins. Several owned Colts whose shells were compatible with the two Colts that had belonged to Nathan Stone. Wes took extra saddlebags in which to carry the gold and the shells. Maria had managed to make friends with the black horse, and had chosen a saddle that had belonged to one of the outlaws.

  “You can have a Winchester and a revolver, if you want,” Wes said.

  “I will take them,” said Maria.

  “I’ll saddle your horse,” Wes said, “and we’ll ride away from here.”

  “Without burying the dead?”

  “They rode away without burying your dead,” said Wes.

  Wes saddled the black, and from one of the dead outlaws who had owned a Colt, he took a gunbelt. The Colt was fully loaded, and he handed the rig to Maria.

  “We’ll have to cut some new holes in that belt so it will fit you,” Wes said.

  The saddle Maria had chosen had a rifle boot, and Wes shoved a Winchester into it. Empty, not liking the prevailing smell of death, hadn’t entered the arroyo. Wes helped Maria to mount the black and, leading it, he started for the mouth of the arroyo, where Empty waited. Most of the freed horses, fearful of the smell of blood, followed the black.

  “The horses follow us,” said Maria.

  “Let them,” Wes said. “Once they’re out in the open, they’ll make tracks for wherever they consider home. I expect the horses belongin’ to the outlaws will be goin’ to Chihuahua or Namiquipa.”

  “What is the place you say?”

  “Chihuahua or Namiquipa,” said Wes. “Namiquipa is a village somewhere to the northwest of Chihuahua. From what I have learned, it’s where the outlaws corral the horses they have stolen in Mexico, until they can be taken across the border and sold.”

  “Namiquipa,” Maria said. “It is a strange sound. I hear them speak of it.”

  They reached the place where Wes had concealed the grulla, and Wes mounted. Maria then directed him to the bay, which she had ridden.

  “Where did you leave your clothes?” Wes asked.

  “In the darkness, near the horse,” said Maria.

  Wes fumbled around until he found the garments, and handed them to her. He led the bay, while she followed on the black. The packsaddle was where it had been left, somewhat disheveled following
Maria’s search for the Colt.

  “What gave you the idea there was a gun in my pack?” Wes asked.

  “I not know,” said Maria. “I have only the hope.”

  “You’d better get back into your clothes,” Wes said.

  “Mañana,” said Maria. “Sleep desnudo.”

  “Suit yourself,” Wes said, “but it’ll be a mite cold before morning. I reckon I can spare you a blanket.”

  Wes picketed all three horses and spread his bedroll near them. There were two extra blankets in his pack, and he gave them to Maria. Wes removed only his hat, gunbelt, and boots, placing the colt where he could get his hand on it in a hurry. Maria rolled herself in the blankets next to him, and before he could close his eyes, she spoke.

  “I wish to be with you. I am afraid.”

  “Afraid, hell.” Wes snorted. “You just shot and killed four men.”

  “Is diferente,” she replied. “I am alone. I do not wish to be.”

  “Maria,” said Wes, “you are beside me. That’s dose enough.”

  She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What can you do to me that has not already been done this day?”

  “I don’t aim to do anything,” Wes said. “I have a woman waiting for me in El Paso.”

  “Muy bonito,” said Maria. “Not ugly and used.”

  “Yes,” Wes admitted, “she is pretty, but so are you. Damn it, stop thinking of yourself as ugly and used.”

  She said no more, and he thought she had fallen asleep, but she had not. She had only moved closer, and was determined to wriggle under his blankets.

  “Maria,” said Wes, exasperated, “if I let you under these blankets next to me, will you behave yourself and try to sleep?”

  “Per’ap,” she replied.

  Beside him, she reached for the two blankets he had given her, drawing them across Wes and herself. But she had no intention of sleeping.

  “You have not tell me why you hate these outlaws,” said Maria.

  “All right,” Wes said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you.”

  He told her, and until he had finished, she spoke not a word.

  “Your padre be avenged. I kill them with his pistola.”

  “I wish it was that simple,” said Wes, “but I do not know that the outlaws who died tonight are those who killed my father. The thieves and killers who ride with Sandlin are many, and I do not know where they are to be found.”

  “But you ride to Chihuahua, to Namiquipa.”

  “Yes,” Wes replied. “I aim to gun them down to the last man. It’s the only way I can be sure of killing the men who murdered my father.”

  “Madre de Dios,” said Maria, “there be many. Per’ap I help you.”

  Wes laughed. “You will walk naked into their midst with a loaded gun?”

  “There be other way,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “When you have the look of a Mejicano, per’ap they not be so quick to kill you.”

  “The look of a Mexican? How?”

  “I show you mañana,” she said.

  Old Mexico. June 29, 1884

  Upon arising, Maria had donned the baggy clothes. Wes started a breakfast fire, and when he had finished slicing bacon into the pan, Maria pointed to the knife.

  “Cuchillo,” she said, holding out her hand. Having no idea as to what she had in mind, Wes handed her the knife. Without any explanation, she vanished into the woods, returning just before Wes had the bacon and the coffee ready. She returned his knife, and in one pocket of the shirt there was a quantity of reddish bark. Wes said nothing, and after they had eaten, Maria emptied the grounds from the coffeepot. Rinsing it thoroughly, she filled it with cold water and, stirring up the fire, put the pot on to boil. When it had begun to steam, she removed the lid and dropped all the shaved bark into the pot.

  “When it’s done,” Wes asked, “what’s that goin’ to be?”

  “I show you,” said Maria.

  When she judged it had boiled enough, Maria removed the pot from the fire. Removing the coffeepot’s lid, she allowed the mixture to cool. She then fished out the slivers of bark and placed the pot before Wes. The brew looked like strong coffee.

  “You’re expectin’ me to drink that?” Wes asked.

  “Por Dios,” said the girl in disgust, “put the hand into it.”

  Gingerly, Wes dipped his left hand into the still-warm liquid, and when he withdrew it, the skin was as brown as Maria’s own.

  “The hand of a Mejicano,” Maria said triumphantly. “Dip the other.”

  Wordlessly, Wes did so, with similar results.

  “You like?” Maria asked.

  “Lord, yes,” said Wes. “I can’t believe it.”

  Maria went to his bedroll, removed a blanket, and spread it on the ground.

  “The clothes,” she said.

  “No,” said Wes, getting her message.

  “The clothes,” Maria said firmly, “or you be Americano. Muerto Americano.”6

  Wes removed his hat, his gunbelt, his boots, and his socks. More slowly, he removed his shirt, and finally his Levis. She pointed to the blanket, and he stretched out on it. Into her cupped hand she poured some of the dark liquid, and starting with his already-stained hands, stained his arms all the way to his shoulders.

  “Close the eyes and the mouth,” she ordered.

  Beginning at the hairline, she worked the dark stain into his face, his ears, and the back of his neck, well below where the shirt collar would ride. She then worked the stain carefully into the skin around his mouth and the underside of his nose. His chin and throat got similar treatment, and she darkened his upper torso well below the collarbone. Finally she started with his feet, taking the stain all the way to his knees.

  “More?” she asked, eyeing what remained of his still-pale skin.

  “No,” said Wes hastily. “I’ll just have to be careful not to strip at the wrong time or place. How long will this stuff last?”

  “A week, per’ap,” Maria said. “You look.”

  He found a place where the water had eddied, and looked at himself.

  “Tarnation,” he said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “You already have the dark hair of a Mejicano,” said Maria.

  “I’m obliged,” Wes said. “What can I do for you in return? Where can I take you?”

  “I go with you,” she replied. “Remember, the Mejicano wears off.”

  It was a sobering thought, for he could never stain himself as thoroughly as she had, even if he knew the kind of bark shavings from which she had created the stain. He had removed his clothes before this strange woman he had known only a few hours, trusting her after she had stolen his horse, disobeyed him, and had taken one of his Colts. Now he was genuinely surprised to find himself at ease with her, even liking her. Actually, he felt only a little guilt, recalling the faithful girl who had shared his bed for many months in faraway El Paso.7 Quickly he freed himself of the guilt. This was the present, and it might be all he had. He might never see El Paso or the girl again....

  Namiquipa, Old Mexico. July 1, 1884.

  A trio of outlaws pondered the six horses gathered outside the corral.

  “I don’t know what the hell to make of this,” Shatiqua said.

  “Me neither,” said Boudlin. “They was seven men rode out. Where’s Shag’s black?”

  “Damn it,” Dantzler said, “when the boss gits back from Chihuahua, he’ll want to know what happened to Shag and the hombres ridin’ with him. Boudlin, you and Shatiqua mount up, back-trail these horses, an’ git back here pronto. I don’t want Kazman climbin’ my carcass, an’ me with no answers.”

  Shatiqua and Boudlin dropped the poles of the corral, allowing the six weary horses to enter. They then caught up their own mounts and saddled them. Shaking his head, Dantzler watched his companions mount and ride off toward the east. He had little doubt the seven missing men were dead, and he didn’t relish breaking the news to Kazman when the surly leader returned.

  Wes and Ma
ria had stopped to rest and water their horses.

  “We ride to Chihuahua or Namiquipa?” Maria asked.

  “Chihuahua,” said Wes. “Namiquipa may be only a village, controlled by the outlaws. I hope Chihuahua is enough of a town for us to ride in without arousing suspicion. There’s a chance, when those horses return riderless to their home corral, some of the gang may back-trail them. Once they find those seven dead men, they could easily begin tracking us. But we’ll lose them when we reach Chihuahua.”

  “Per’ap,” Maria said. “How well you speak the Español?”

  “Muy bueno, señorita,” said Wes.

  She raised her eyebrows, and he broke into a bawdy song in Spanish.

  “Bueno,” Maria said.

  She began firing questions at him in Spanish, and just as rapidly he fired back every answer in an accent as fluent as her own.

  A little more than an hour before sundown, they reached a clear, deep-flowing stream. “We’ll stay the night here,” said Wes.

  “Do you wish me to cook the food?” Maria asked. “It is woman’s work.”

  Wes laughed. “It is the work of anyone who wishes to eat. But go ahead. Long as the fire’s out before dark.”

  He unsaddled the horses and removed the packsaddle from the packhorse. Gratefully, the animals rolled and then made their way to the stream to drink. Wes took the time to divide the gold coins he had taken from the outlaws. Half of them he returned to the saddlebag, and presented it to Maria. When she looked at the contents, she caught her breath.

  “I do not know there is so much in the world. Why do you give it to Maria?”

  “It’s half of what I took from the outlaws,” Wes said. “If something happens to me or we become separated, you will not be poor.”

  “Per’ap it be stolen from the poor.”

  “Maybe,” Wes conceded, “but we have no way of knowing, and no way of returning it to those from whom it might have been taken.”

  “Is true,” said Maria. “Gracias.”

  After supper, Wes picketed the three horses well away from the stream.

  “Why you take them so far from the water?”