Free The Border Empire by Ralph Compton Page B

bushwhacked and their horses stole. One of Mexico’s daily cloudbursts washed out the trail of the thieves doin’ the killin’.”
    â€œThe truth, hell,” Wooten said bitterly. “You don’t know the pair that rode in here an’ give me hell wasn’t the killers who cut down your men and scattered your horses.”
    â€œI don’t know that they was, either,” said Kazman. “I’m tellin’ you, I won’t tell any more of this than I’m forced to. If this is some bastard set on bustin’ up the gang, then he’s got his work cut out for him. Let him make big tracks in Hermosillo or Guaymas, and his hell-raisin’ here won’t be so hard to believe.”
    Kazman and Wooten parted company, neither satisfied, both uncertain as to their next move.
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    Day after day, in the seclusion of the cave, El Lobo had practiced with the twin Colts, working the stiffness from his arms and shoulders. A week after he had been shot, he pronounced himself ready to ride.
    â€œI cannot stand another hour in this cave, señor,” El Lobo said.
    â€œDamn it,” said Wes, “stop callin’ me that. It makes me feel like I’m your daddy. My name is Wes.”
    â€œSí, Señor Wes,” El Lobo said agreeably. “You may call me Wolf.”
    â€œSí, Señor Wolf,” said Wes.
    For the first time since their meeting, they had occasion to laugh, and they did so. It would become a standing joke between them as they rode the muerto trails.

Chihuahua, Mexico. July 13, 1884
    Selmer, Coe, and Wooten had spent yet another day seeking to add men to their diminished ranks, without results.
    â€œIt’s no damn use,” Selmer said. “We got to go to Nogales or Juarez for gunmen with sand enough to throw in with us.”
    â€œYeah,” said Coe. “We’ve had too many dead men. Even the Mexes that can use a gun are shyin’ away from us. They’re callin’ this mystery gunman El Diablo.”
    â€œI’d rather face El Diablo than take the news of these killings to Nogales or Juarez;” Wooten said gloomily. “They’ll be lookin’ to us for more horses to be sold in Texas, an’ we don’t have men for the job.”
    Near dusk, the trio returned to their lodging house. El Lobo watched them enter, and as quietly as he had arrived, he departed, a grim look of satisfaction on his rugged face.
    â€œThere’s only three of them, then,” Wes said when El Lobo had returned.
    â€œI see no more,” said El Lobo. “Wooten, Selmer, and Coe.”
    â€œI reckon you want Selmer and Coe,” Wes said.
    â€œSí,” El Lobo replied. “I show you where Wooten sleep.”
    They waited until well after dark, past the supper hour. The packsaddle had been left in the cave, and El Lobo rode the bay, leading Wes down alleys and byways. They reined up behind a darkened house, dismounted, and tethered their horses to a hitching rail. From the darkness, Empty materialized and took his position with the horses. Following El Lobo, Wes entered the hall of the house. Near the front door, a lit lamp sat on a table.
    â€œWooten,” said El Lobo softly, pointing to a door.
    â€œWe’ll be leavin’ here on the run,” Wes said. “How long?”
    â€œUno momento,” said El Lobo. “No longer.”
    He pointed to the door of the adjoining room, placing his hand on the knob. Taking the knob of the first door in his left hand, Wes tried to turn it, but found it locked. El Lobo, faced with a similar situation, nodded. Simultaneously, they kicked in the doors and then stood to one side. Guns roared from within the darkened rooms, and chest-high, lead ripped through the open doorways. Wes and El Lobo had only to fire at muzzle flashes, and the roar of their Colts became a drumroll of sound. They paused just long enough to assure themselves there would be no return