Free The Border Empire by Ralph Compton

wore on, El Lobo became feverish. He mumbled in Spanish and reached for the revolvers that weren’t there. Time after time, Wes dosed the wounded outlaw with whiskey. He had removed El Lobo’s gunbelt and had returned the twin revolvers to their holsters. Curious, he examined the weapons. They were matched .44-caliber Colts, with hair-triggers, formidable weapons in the hands of a man adept in their use. When his wounds had healed, what would El Lobo choose to do about the men who had shot him in the back?
    â€œI sleep,” El Lobo said, when he awakened the next afternoon.
    â€œSince yesterday afternoon,” said Wes. “You’ve been wrasslin’ with a fever all night, and I’ve been dosin’ you with whiskey. You’re on the mend.”
    â€œHead hurt lak hell,” El Lobo said.
    Wes laughed. “The whiskey. Sometimes the hangover’s more painful than bein’ shot. I have a pot of hot coffee and grub when you’re ready.”
    â€œCoffee,” said El Lobo. “Much coffee.”
    He drank what remained of the coffee, and Wes put the pot on the fire to boil more. Empty lay near the cave’s entrance, his eyes on El Lobo. Wes began slicing bacon into a pan, knowing the wounded man would be hungry once the whiskey had worn off. El Lobo ate the food, downing the second pot of coffee along with it. With only a nod to Wes, he then lay down and slept another four hours. When he awakened, he struggled to a sitting position, getting his back against the stone wall of the cave. When he spoke, it wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
    â€œYou ride the death trail, señor.”
    â€œI have my reasons,” said Wes. “So do you.”
    â€œSí,” El Lobo agreed. “Selmer and Coe.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œI do not know, señor,” said El Lobo. “These hombres shoot me.”
    â€œYou aim to make buzzard bait of them,” Wes said, “and I don’t blame you. But when you do, the rest of the gang will be after your head, like they’re after mine.”
    â€œPer’ap,” said El Lobo, “and like you, I will not disappoint them. Have I the right to know why you wish to kill them?”
    â€œI reckon,” Wes replied. “It’s no secret. Fact is, I want the varmints to know why I aim to gun them down to the last man. You know of the murder of Maria in Chihuahua, but there’s more. Just a hell of a lot more.”
    Wes spoke for an hour, telling of the murder of his father, Nathan Stone, and of his vow to wipe out the Sandlin gang. 9
    â€œMadre de Dios,” El Lobo said. “El muerte trail be your duty, a blood debt that must be paid. But you do not know the hombres you seek?”
    â€œNo,” Wes said. “That’s why I aim to wipe out the whole bunch, if I have to shoot my way from one end of Mexico to the other.”
    â€œPer’ap we ride the same trail, señor.”
    â€œI must kill many,” said Wes, “while you seek only two.”
    El Lobo laughed. “They kill me just as dead for shooting Selmer and Coe as they kill you for shooting many. Comprende?”
    â€œI couldn’t agree more,” Wes said, “but you might be able to gun down Coe and Selmer without all the others comin’ after you. That won’t be the case if you ride with me.”
    â€œThese hombres —this gang—are in all of Mexico, señor. He who is not one of them is against them. To remain in Mexico is to die.”
    â€œI don’t aim to remain in Mexico any longer than it takes to smash this gang,” said Wes, “and neither should you. We can then cross the border into the United States.”
    â€œI think there is no place for El Lobo in these United States. I not be welcome.”
    â€œI can make you welcome,” Wes said. “Do you know of the Texas Rangers?”
    â€œSí,” said El Lobo. “Since the war,