“Bueno amigo, muy bueno companero.”
Los Mochis, Mexico. July 24, 1884
Wes and El Lobo rode south at first light, bound for Mazatlán. Wes intentionally rode down into the foothills paralleling the bay. El Lobo looked at him questioningly.
“We’ll travel at a lower elevation,” Wes said. “It’ll be easier goin’, and when we’re far enough from town, I aim to send another telegraph message. I can do that while we rest the horses.”
While El Lobo had said nothing, Wes knew he was impatient. The one thing Hernando Delmano hadn’t said in the newspaper story was how much time had elapsed since Tamara had disappeared. It all depended on how swiftly the outlaws smuggled their human cargo out of Mexico. The only real hope Wes had was that the girl had been taken within the last three or four days. The turmoil his telegraph message had caused might have delayed the sailing ship that would have taken Tamara away. They followed the meandering telegraph line until it was time to rest the horses. El Lobo watched with interest as Wes took the telegraph key from his saddlebag and attached the climbing hooks to his boots. Swiftly he climbed a pole and patched the instrument into the wire. He asked for and received permission to send, and without knowing with whom he had made contact, sent his message:El Diablo Pistolas warn the Sandlin outlaws stop. We are coming for you stop. Death to the Dragon.
Quickly Wes broke the connection, climbed down the pole, and returned the equipment to his saddlebags.
“What telegraph say?” El Lobo asked.
“It told the Sandlin gang we’re comin’ after them,” said Wes. “That first message got so much attention, I felt like we owed ’em another. I figure the newspaper people will be roosting pretty close to every telegraph office in the country. If this second message hits as hard as the first, that bunch of owlhoots in Durango ought to be pretty well spooked by the time we get there.”
El Lobo said nothing. They mounted and rode on, stopping only to rest the horses. It was near sundown when they unsaddled their horses and made camp near a spring. There was a light wind from the south, and from somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
“Easy, old son,” Wes said when Empty’s hackles rose.
“Not be Mazatlán,” said El Lobo. “Per’ap this time mañana.”
After supper, they stretched out, heads on their saddles, and listened to their horses cropping grass.
“I reckon it’s none of my business,” Wes said, “but you’ve never told me your given name. I can’t imagine your ma naming you El Lobo.”
He was silent for so long, Wes thought he had become angry. Finally he laughed.
“My mother call me Palo Elfego, after my wandering father. I hate the name as much as I hate him. I take the name Wolf—El Lobo—for myself.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” said Wes. “The name becomes you.”
They rode out at dawn, and soon they could see a village below.
“More sailing ships,” Wes said. “What town do you reckon this is?”16
“Not know,” said El Lobo.
Durango, Mexico. July 25, 1884
When Dolan Watts and his men reached the outpost at Durango, more than five hundred of the Sandlin outlaws had gathered there. While most of the men paid no attention, the arrival of Dolan Watts was noted with interest by Brodie Fentress and Denton Rucker. Fentress, segundo of the Durango outpost, and Rucker, his second in command, waited for Watts and his men to dismount.
“So you’re the daddy of this snake-stompin’,” Fentress said. “I reckon you’ve seen the papers an’ know what the telegraph’s spreadin’ all over the country.”
“Yeah,” said Watts. “How many of our outfits are here?”
“Less than half,” Fentress said sourly. “What do you aim to do about the others?”
“Wait for them,” said Watts, just as sourly. “Do you have a better idea?”
“No,” Fentress replied, “but Black Bill Trevino likely will. He’s on his way here from Mexico City.”
“Then let him come,” said Watts recklessly. “I’ll step aside and he can appoint anybody he chooses—includin’ you—to take command of this outfit. Somethin’ had to be done, and if the rest of you don’t like the moves I’ve made, then by God, I’ll back off. Do it your way.”
Before Fentress could respond, there was the thump of hoofbeats, a rider coming at a fast gallop. He swung out of the saddle, a wad of newspapers in his hand.
“Brodie, the Durango paper just come out, and there’s another telegram from them hombres that’s out to get us.”
Silently, Fentress took the paper and unfolded it. The entire front page was devoted to the mysterious duo who had begun the destruction of the Sandlin gang. In addition to the threatening text of the second telegraph message, there was the text of the first, along with all the damning information that had appeared previously.
“By God,” said Rucker, “if this goes on, gunnin’ down these two hombres will be the least of our troubles. We’ll have to fight all of Mexico.”
“That’s the truth if I ever heard it,” Fentress said. “These Mexes used to be scared to death of us, and now they’re laughing at us. Where in tarnation do we start lookin’ for the pair of varmints that started all this?”
All eyes were on Dolan Watts, and he had no answers.
San Ignacio, Mexico. July 25, 1884
Wes and El Lobo reached the village in the late afternoon, and El Lobo pointed out the Delmano residence. By Mexican standards, it was a mansion. Despite El Lobo’s obvious interest in Tamara Delmano, he seemed reluctant to face her father.
“Come on,” Wes said, “and let’s get this behind us. The worst he can do is ask us to leave.”
They dismounted and, leading their horses, approached the big house with the white columns and spacious grounds. They had been seen. The grim man who stood waiting for them was dressed in black, his arms folded across his chest.
“That be Hernando Delmano,” said El Lobo.
Their welcome was much as El Lobo had predicted.
“Palo Elfego, you are not welcome here,” Delmano said.
“I come only for word of Tamara,” said El Lobo, “and then I go. When she be taken by outlaws?”
“Five days ago,” Delmano said. “Now go.”
“You don’t show much concern for your daughter,” said Wes. “What kind of man are you?”
“A private one,” Delmano said, “and I do not welcome strangers who interfere where they are not wanted. Who are you, and what is your business here?”
“I am here with my amigo,” said Wes, “and his concern is my own. We seek to find and rescue your daughter, Tamara. Not for your sake, but for hers.”
“Then go,” Delmano said, “and take with you my pity for your unfortunate choice of friends.”
Wes and El Lobo had no choice. Mounting their horses, they rode back the way they had come. While Delmano’s hostility had come as no surprise, El Lobo was obviously dejected.
“I only want to save Tamara,” said El Lobo, “and still he hate me.”
“That old busardo needs some holes poked in him, lettin’ the pride leak out,” Wes replied. “If we can return Tamara to him, maybe it’ll change his feelings toward you.”
“I not know where to look for her.”
“In the last four or five days, we’ve raised hell and kicked a chunk under it,” said Wes, “and I’m thinkin’ that might have slowed the slave trade some. Tamara may still be in these parts. Maybe in Mazatlán.”
“Per’ap,” El Lobo said without much enthusiasm.
“We’ll start in Mazatlán,” said Wes. “If there’s a whorehouse and it’s under the control of the Sandlin gang, then maybe we can learn something there.”
El Lobo said nothing. Now that the search for Tamara Delmano had begun, he seemed fearful of what they might discover.
Mazatlán, Mexico. July 25, 1884
Wes and El Lobo reached Mazatlán in the late afternoon. It was larger than any of the coastal towns they had pa
ssed along the way, and four sailing ships were at the dock. One of them was being loaded for departure. A Mexican flag fluttered from its mast.
“That could be a slave ship gettin’ ready to leave,” Wes said. “I reckon we got no time to lose. Let’s find that whorehouse.”
It was a time when such places were prominent, usually found in a part of town with an abundance of cheap cafes, run-down rooming houses, and cantinas. Mazatlán was no different. The place was a two-story affair near the waterfront, and a faded sign proclaimed it the CASA DE SEÑORITAS.
“It’s late enough in the afternoon,” Wes said. “They should be ready for business.”
Wes pounded on the door with the butt of one of his Colts, while El Lobo waited uncertainly behind him. When the madam finally appeared, she eyed the duo suspiciously, but Wes had his foot in the door before she could close it.
“It is the time of the siesta,” she objected.
“The siesta just ended,” said Wes. “We’re lookin’ for a particular setiorita.”
She was still doing her best to close the door when Wes extended his hand. In his palm was one of the dragon medallions, and it produced the desired effect. Without a word, the woman allowed them to enter, and then closed the door behind them. She then spoke a single word.
“Senoritas?”
“Yes,” Wes said. “We want to see all of them.”
“No comprender.”
Wes drew his right-hand Colt and placed its muzzle under her chin.
“All the señoritas,” said Wes. “Comprende?”
“Si,” she replied.
She turned as though to mount the stairs, and in the split-second her back was to Wes, she drew from her bosom a .41-caliber derringer. She whirled, and there was barely time for Wes to seize her wrist with his left hand. The pocket pistol roared, dropping dust and plaster from the ceiling. His Colt still in his right hand, Wes slammed the muzzle of it against the woman’s head. She slid to the floor, unconscious.
“That shot may bring the law,” said Wes. “We may not have much time, but we’d better bind and gag this old señorita. Never trust a woman after she’s tried to kill you.”
Quickly they bound the woman with cords cut from window blinds, and El Lobo tore enough from the bottom of her long dress for a gag.
“I don’t know Tamara,” Wes said, “so you’ll have to visit all the señoritas. Come on.”
They took the stairs two at a time and found themselves looking down a long hall. Wes knocked on the first door, but there was no response. A knock on the second door went unanswered.
“Damn it,” said Wes, “we don’t have time to be polite.”
He turned the knob of the first door and, finding the room empty, tried the second door, only to find another empty room. In the third room, a girl had drawn a sheet over her head. Wes yanked it off, but El Lobo shook his head. The naked girl wasn’t Tamara. Quickly they found three more women, none of whom was the girl El Lobo sought. There were just two more doors at the end of the hall. One of the rooms was empty, but in the last one, an American girl with auburn hair sat on the edge of a rumpled bed. She wore nothing, and her face was buried in her hands. It seemed her very soul had been taken from her, and only when she lifted her head did her eyes go wide with the shock of recognition.
“Wes!” she cried. “Wes!”
She was pitifully thin, and when she got to her feet, she stumbled and fell. Shocked for only an instant, Wes was by her side.
“Renita,” he cried, “I left you in El Paso. ”How ... why ...”
He helped her to her feet, and she sank down on the bed, weeping wildly.
“Your woman?” El Lobo asked softly.
“My woman,” said Wes.
“I go,” El Lobo said. “Keep watch.”
He fully understood the danger, for a shot had been fired, and at any moment their presence in the house might be discovered. Wes took Renita by the shoulders and shook her. There was no time for hysterics, and she gradually became aware of their precarious position.
“We have to get out of here,” Wes said. “Where are your clothes?”
“In El Paso,” she said between sobs, “but what does it matter? I’ve been here too long. I’ve been used. I’ve been made a whore, and nothing will ever be the same. I can’t expect you to pretend it never happened.”
“I won’t pretend it never happened,” said Wes, “but there’s one thing that won’t ever change. You’re the same girl I left in El Paso, and you’re being here is no fault of yours. Whatever’s been done to you, I still want you. Has it changed your feelings for me?”
“Oh, dear God, no!” she cried. “I ... I just thought ... I’d lost you forever ... because of ... of what ... I’ve become.”
“Then dress yourself in whatever you can find,” said Wes. “I’m taking you with me.”
“Go with me while I look in some of the empty rooms,” she said. “There must be something I can wear.”
“You’re thinner than when I first found you in El Paso,” said Wes. “Have they been starving you?”
“I’ve been starving myself,” Renita replied. “Since the day they took me, I’ve prayed that I could die. Who is that ... riding with you?”
“He used to be one of the outlaws I came to kill,” said Wes, “until they tried to kill him. He calls himself El Lobo, but his real name is Palo Elfego. We came here looking for Tamara Delmano, a Spanish girl the outlaws stole away from San Ignacio. El Lobo wanted her, and I reckon she wanted him, but her daddy—Hernando Delmano—is a prideful old varmint that gave El Lobo the gate. We’ve been givin’ the Sandlin outlaws hell, and we had the notion that maybe Tamara was still in Mazatlán, that they hadn’t taken her away.”
“Perhaps she was one of the two girls brought here,” Renita said. “One of them was Mexican, but the other could have been Spanish. They were kept here three days and were taken away yesterday. The two men who brought them here said they were to be broken in before taking them aboard. I believe he was referring to a ship, because that’s how I was brought here. I was taken west in a wagon, to the Gulf of California, and we sailed from there.”
In a closet in one of the vacant rooms, Renita found some long dresses, one of which wasn’t large enough to swallow her.
“I have nothing to wear under it,” she said.
“No matter,” said Wes. “Somehow we’ll have to get you a horse, and if we’re able to manage that, I reckon we can find you some britches and a shirt.”
“Some shoes or boots, too?”
“We’ll try,” Wes said. “Come on, and let’s get out of here.”
Descending the stairs, they found El Lobo keeping watch at the front door. The Mexican madam lay where they had left her, but she was conscious, and her dark eyes fairly glittered with hatred. On impulse, Renita seized the hem of the woman’s long dress, drawing it almost over her head.
“Let her feet loose,” said Renita. “She has something I can use.’
Mystified, Wes did so. Renita peeled off the madam’s underdrawers and, raising her own skirt, wriggled into them. El Lobo watched with interest, a twinkle in his eyes.
“I don’t like straddling a horse in a dress with my behind bare,” Renita said.
Wes bound the madam’s ankles, and they left the house. Empty had remained with the horses, and nothing seemed amiss.
“El Lobo—also known as Palo Elfego—this is Renita,” said Wes. “From what she’s told me, two girls were kept here for three days, and then possibly taken to a ship. One of them was Spanish and might have been Tamara Delmano.”
“El Lobo thanks you,” he said, bowing. “There is hope for Tamara.”
“Damn right,” said Wes. “Let’s ride.”
Chapter 9
Renita riding with Wes, the three of them reached the foothills above the harbor. In the distance, men were still loading the ship flying the Mexican flag.
“That one’s gettin’ ready to sail,” Wes said, “but if it’s a sl
aver, why are they loading other cargo?”
“The one that brought me had other cargo,” said Renita. “I was locked in an iron cage on a lower deck with the freight.”
“We’ll have to board her,” Wes said. “It’ll soon be dark.”
“I go,” said El Lobo.
“You’re not going alone,” Wes said. “You don’t know how many armed men you may be facing. Getting yourself killed won’t help Tamara. Renita, we’ll have to find a safe place to hide you.”
“No,” said Renita, “I don’t want to be left alone. I want to go with you. I’ll stay with the horses, and you can leave Empty with us.”
“Bueno,” El Lobo said. “Señorita sensato.”
Wes couldn’t argue with that. Being in hostile territory, Renita would be safer with Empty and the horses than she would be in the mountains alone. The vessel bearing the Mexican flag was the last in a line of four anchored near the dock. As darkness fell, there was the dim glow of a lantern on the prow of the ship being loaded.
“They may be sailing tonight,” said Wes. “We don’t have any time to spare.”
They reined up several hundred yards from the dock, in the shadow of a warehouse whose far end faced the bay. Four men wrestled barrels and crates from the warehouse to the ship that was being loaded.
“Renita,” Wes said, “you and Empty will stay here with the horses. El Lobo, you and me have to get inside that warehouse while all four of those hombres are somewhere between it and the ship. We’ll buffalo them two at a time, and we should be able to board the ship before they come to their senses. But once aboard, we don’t know how many of the outlaws we’ll be facing. No shooting if it can be avoided. If there’s no other way, we’ll go over the side and swim for it. Ready?”
“Si,” El Lobo said.
Keeping within the shadow of the building, they crept as near the front of the warehouse as they dared. Wes watched the dockworkers until he had some idea as to how long it took two of the men to deposit their cargo on board and return to the warehouse. As two of them approached the ship with their load, the second pair headed for the building. Wes nudged El Lobo, and as the men stepped through the door, Wes and El Lobo were behind them, each with a Colt in his hand. Both men were unconscious following swift blows to the head. Wes and El Lobo dragged them away from the door and waited for their companions to return. But the returning pair were curious.
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