Read Online The Border Empire by Ralph Compton - Free Book Online Page A

so he wouldn’t slide off. While they were only a few miles from the stream where the packsaddle was cached, it seemed much farther, for their progress was slow. Empty ran on ahead, while Wes kept a constant watch on his back trail. When they eventually reached the stream, Wes looked at the sun, estimating the time. It had been at least three hours since the gunfight, probably time enough for the trio of outlaws to reach town afoot. If they immediately mounted another force and came after him, his act of mercy toward this wounded outlaw could cost him his life.
    â€œI don’t like the odds, Empty,” said Wes, “but I’ll finish what I’ve started.”
    He built his fire small, put on a pot of water to boil, and went after the medicine and bandages in his pack. Finally, he removed El Lobo’s shirt. The man’s breathing was harsh and ragged. When the water began to boil, Wes cleansed the wounds front and back. He then folded lengths of cotton muslin into large square pads. One of them he placed over the wounds in the back, and the other over the exit wounds, just below the collarbone. He then drenched the pads with disinfectant. Suddenly the wounded man spoke.
    â€œI come to kill you. Why you do this?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” said Wes. “I was about to drop you when your companeros shot you from behind. I reckoned if that bunch of coyotes hated you that much, there might be some good in you.”
    El Lobo’s laugh was bitter. “There is none, señor. I am as vile as they.”
    â€œThe señorita,” Wes said. “She was tortured with a cuchillo and then murdered. Tell me the name of the bastard responsible for that.”
    â€œWooten,” said El Lobo. “He segundo in Chihuahua.”
    â€œThen I won’t be leavin’ Chihuahua until I settle with him,” Wes replied. “You’ll need some time to heal from your wounds. Do you know of a place we can hole up where that bunch can’t find us?”
    â€œSí. There are caves in the mountains to the north. El Lobo find. Rain come soon.”
    It was true, just as Maria had predicted, for the sky had already begun to cloud over.
    â€œWe’d better ride, then,” said Wes, “because we’ll have to take it slow. We’ll be riding double, so the bay can carry the packsaddle. With any luck, the rain will wash out our tracks. But you’ll have to guide me, because I don’t know this country.”
    â€œSí. El Lobo know. El Lobo tough, lak hell.”
    Wes noted with some relief that El Lobo was thinner, more wiry than he had at first appeared, so the grulla could bear the extra weight if they took their time. A little more than an hour into their journey, the rain came. Well before it ended, they had reached the cave El Lobo had in mind. It was roomy enough for the horses, there was water, and the entrance was concealed to the extent that it was lost to those who didn’t know that it was there. Previous visitors had left a supply of dry firewood.
    â€œIndios come here,” El Lobo said.
    â€œThanks to the rain,” said Wes, “we should be safe enough here.”
    A breath of cool air from the interior of the cave was proof enough of an escape for the smoke from a fire.
    â€œI am Wes Stone,” Wes said, by way of introduction. “Who are you?”
    â€œI am El Lobo,” said the wounded man.
    â€œNothing more?”
    â€œWolf, to my amigos. When I have any.”
    â€œI am surprised to find you riding with a band of outlaws and killers,” said Wes. “I have the feeling you’re a better man than that.”
    â€œWhat would you have me do?” El Lobo snarled. “My father is a Spaniard who return to his homeland on one of the great ships. My mother is an Indio who sell me into slavery when I am but ten summers old. I muck stables for a piece of bread and a pile of straw upon which to sleep. I am