Onslow tossed the sacks of money over to Sanchez.

  ‘Pay us when you get the guns,’ he rasped. ‘We’ll hold them off while you get mounted.’

  ‘Gracias, señor.’ Sanchez parodied a bow. ‘I appreciate your honesty.’

  ‘De nada.’ Onslow grinned: he couldn’t help it. ‘Now get the hell out an’ up.’

  He turned as he spoke, yanking the wooden holster stock of the Mauser clear from its fastenings under his jacket. Rifle shots were spanging dust out of the street as he snapped the shoulder-piece against the studs of the butt and snapped the safety catch clear. It felt good: like old times.

  ‘I’ll take the left!’

  Jonas Strong spun his horse behind a shack and came out with the Browning pumped up and ready to fire, kneeling as he watched the gray uniforms get closer.

  ‘Good!’ hollered Onslow. ‘McCloud! Jamie! Back us!’

  McCloud swung down off his horse and hauled the box-magazine Winchester clear of the saddle. He ran back down the street and took cover behind a water barrel, complaining all the way. The Kid giggled and turned his horse around. He heeled it up to a gallop and slid clear of the saddle with the Winchester in his right hand and the horse still running head on at the federales. He was laughing all the way.

  His horse got panicked by the gunfire and started to buck in the center of the street. It got shot apart, but it stayed kicking long enough to break up the charge and give Sanchez and his men time to reach the corral.

  By then Onslow was firing.

  His first three shots were placed in a neat grouping that blew the lead rider’s heart to pieces and blew it out backwards through his spine. The federale lifted clear of the saddle and tumbled over his horse’s flanks to tangle with the legs of the animals behind.

  Strong loosed off a blast of ought-ought shot that spread two faces in ribbons over the exposed bones of the bloodied skulls.

  Onslow fired methodically, swinging the Mauser from left to right, scoring a hit each time he squeezed the trigger.

  McCloud and Durham were using their Winchesters, picking off the charging riders with cold precision.

  Two men, their horses shot away, ran up the street with carbines in their hands. Onslow dropped one, then saw the second lift up and fly sideways as Strong triggered the shotgun. Three more went down to Durham and McCloud, and then the street was empty again.

  The federales pulled back to the far end, unwilling to risk a second charge.

  Onslow grabbed his horse and shouted for the others to mount.

  Jesus Sanchez came down the street with five men. They all had rifles or carbines in their hands and they were all firing. Onslow and his men got mounted and turned away. They went up the street at a gallop, picked up the Mexicans at the corral, and headed fast out of San Cristobal.

  The federales declined to follow them, and they got clear of town without pursuit.

  They rode straight into the hills and by late afternoon they knew the Government forces were coming after them.

  Sanchez had his full complement of eight men with him, Onslow had Strong, Durham, and McCloud. That made the odds something like thirteen against thirty, which wasn’t too bad. At least not with the terrain and the advantage of the Villistas’ knowledge of hideouts. The trouble was that Sanchez wanted to hold back and ambush the Government forces; and Onslow felt much the same way.

  For all of that, he couldn’t help recognizing the danger of pitting the rebels against the better-armed federales. Surprise had won their release from San Cristobal: in a straight-up fight, the soldiers would most likely win.

  It went against the grain, but he persuaded Sanchez to fall back on the canyon. That way, they would either lose the troopers or catch them in a trap. Either way it was their best bet short of losing the soldiers. And losing them didn’t seem likely. At least not after hours of hard riding with the gray-coats still hard on their heels. Onslow noticed that two men stayed out in front, both dark and neither Mexican: the federales had Yaqui trackers with them.

  That tended to balance out the Mexicans’ fear of direct fight. Onslow understood the psychological equation: going up against armed men inside the confines of a town was one thing, chasing them was another. The chasers felt superior because the quarry was running; the reason didn’t matter very much: only the fact. At the same time, the runners felt harassed, chased. It made them nervous; careless; anxious only to run. It was a tactic Onslow had used against other people before. Now he hoped to reverse the process and use it against his pursuers.

  He sent Strong and Durham up ahead with most of Sanchez’ men. He stayed back with Jesus and McCloud and three of the Villistas.

  They hung back just far enough for the trackers to spot them and lead the federales on.

  It was a wild ride, one calculated to a deadly nicety that kept them only a few nerve-tugging yards ahead of the Mexican bullets.

  They went up into the hills, darting through the pines, then came out onto an old, dry riverbed and turned east. By the time they cut south again and climbed up the far bank the federales were in clear sight.

  They rode down through a stand of pine and galloped at full stretch for the breaks beyond, then turned away and cut through the broken country in the direction of the canyon. It was nerve-wracking work, because they had to stay just far enough ahead to allow the troopers a clear sight, yet far enough away to avoid their bullets.

  They got back to the canyon with the federales a quarter mile or less behind them.

  Jonas Strong showed at the mouth, shouting a warning. Onslow caught it as he went in: ‘Follow the markers!’

  He took the lead, shouting for Sanchez and McCloud to match his path.

  It was pegged out with branches of mesquite, each one tagged with a tiny strip of cloth. A casual rider would have missed them and ridden over the mines: because Onslow knew what was resting under the sand he could avoid them, and take his companions through safely.

  The federales were less fortunate.

  The Yaqui scouts waited long enough for the rest of the troopers to catch up, then the whole column grouped in a line and charged. The narrow entrance forced them to slow down and thin out to a triple column that rode straight over Jamie Durham’s first two mines.

  When the hooves touched the delicate studs on the top of the sand they pushed sprung levers down into cylinders of mercury that triggered fulminate caps into a mass of explosive. The explosive was packed inside a case of thin metal, designed to fragment under pressure. They fragmented upwards.

  Into the horses and the men above.

  Two federales screamed as they pitched clear of their writhing animals and fell under the hooves of the following horses.

  Three more went down when they hit the second line of mines. By then the others were moving too fast to stop. They rode headlong over the third line and the whole column got broken up into splinters of flying flesh and tumbling chunks of bloody bone.

  Rifles opened fire from both sides of the canyon and Jamie Durham tossed grenades into the mess of streaming flesh and running men.

  Onslow swung his horse round and heeled it back towards the mouth of the canyon. He saw a federale stumbling to the side, hands pressed against the wound on his face. Shot him. Then another, blowing his chest apart as the trooper tried to climb onto a horse.

  A rider showed through the smoke and dust. Onslow levelled his Colt. Blew the man clear of the saddle. Rode on into the roiling dust that smelt of blood and cordite.

  All about him there was the sound of gunfire, the stink of dying. His eyes stung from the smoke, watering even as he killed. He went on firing until the top latch of the Colt sprang back and jammed the hammer. Then he hauled the Mauser from his side and used that until all the ten shells were spent. Then he used his Winchester and killed some more.

  He had no idea how long it went on. All he saw was a vision of Montoya, and he fired at each invisible face. And when his rifle was emptied he used it as a club and smashed it down onto the men running and screaming around him.

  He had no idea how long it took, or how many men he had killed, but when the canyon got quiet and the lazy flies began to buzz around the bodies he knew he felt better.

  It was a strange feeling. Like delivering the last address at a funeral service.

  It was some kind of commitment. A bloody promise to Linda and to Ramon Hoyos.

  A decision.

  He felt better for doing it. And at the same time knew it was wrong.

  He walked his horse over to the mouth of the canyon and smiled at Jamie Durham, who smiled back—pleased with the carnage of his mines.

  Yates McCloud came out through the dust, his gray suit splattered with blood.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Onslow. ‘You did real good.’

  Jonas Strong walked over, his shirt dusty and flecked with things that might have been brains once.

  Onslow nodded at him. ‘Thanks, Jonas.’

  The big Negro stared at Onslow, a frown wrinkling his dark forehead. ‘You reckon that was necessary?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Onslow nodded. ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘We could’ve lost them. We didn’t need to risk a fight.’

  ‘They had trackers,’ said Onslow. ‘Those Yaquis would’ve trailed us no matter what.’

  ‘We could’ve lost them,’ Strong repeated. ‘You know that. Leading them up here might’ve fouled the whole deal.’

  ‘What the hell’s eating you?’ Onslow grinned, springing a fresh clip into the Mauser. ‘We killed them, didn’t we?’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’ Strong stared hard at Onslow’s face. ‘You enjoyed the killing. You wanted this to happen.’ He turned, waving an arm across the canyon to indicate the bodies. A few of the troopers were still alive and Sanchez’ men were moving amongst them. The stillness was broken by the sound of single pistol shots.

  Onslow nodded. When he spoke, his voice was flat and bitter. ‘Why not? They killed Linda.’

  ‘Montoya killed Linda. Go after him, not the whole damn’ Mexican Army.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Onslow coldly. ‘They owe me.’

  Strong was about to say something else, but Sanchez came over with a big smile on his face and the moneybags slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘If all my people fought like you gringos the war would soon be over.’

  Onslow shrugged and took the sacks. Then he called for Jamie Durham to defuse the charges planted amongst the weapons and watched as the revolutionaries loaded the two wagons.

  ‘There’s still payment to be made,’ he said slowly. ‘Where’s Montoya?’

  Sanchez grinned. ‘The colonel has gone into Chihuahua. He is chasing Pancho Villa over towards the Texas border. The last word I got was that he bases himself in a town called Santa Rosaria.’

  ‘That’s right on the border, isn’t it?’ said Onslow.

  Sanchez nodded agreement.

  ‘Right close to Fort Davis.’ Onslow got a thoughtful look on his face as he said it. ‘An’ Fort Davis is a supply depot.’

  ‘So?’ Sanchez asked. ‘Is that important?’

  ‘It might be,’ grunted Onslow. ‘How’d you like some more guns?’

  Chapter Eight

  THE SUMMER OF 1913 was hot and bloody. Huerta sat tight in Mexico City, content to leave his officers to fight the growing armies of rebels while he drank himself to a stupor and ignored the ruin of his country. To the south, in Morelos, Emiliano Zapata led his peon followers against the hacendados. In the north, in Chihuahua and Sonora, Pancho Villa rode free, looting in the name of revolution. To the northeast, in Coahuila, Venustiano Carranza was organizing formal opposition to the debauched dictator.

  In the United States, President Taft was replaced by Woodrow Wilson. The new incumbent, though personally sympathetic to the ideals of the revolutionaries, was under pressure from those business organizations having interests in Mexico and consequently anxious to see Huerta win. At the same time, Pancho Villa was angering the citizens of Texas and New Mexico with his forays across the border. Wilson was forced to declare an embargo on all shipments of arms from America into Mexico. It was a move that hit the rebels hard. Equally, it increased the value of weapons, no matter how they were obtained.

  Onslow took his men eastwards through Sonora into Chihuahua. They stayed mostly on the back roads, wary of confrontation with both Government forces and revolutionaries. At that time it was not healthy to be an American in Mexico.

  They crossed over the high, dry plain and moved towards the Rio Grande, closing in on Santa Rosaria. Jesus Sanchez had given them a note of introduction to Pancho Villa and a second sheet of floridly scribbled paper that he described as a ‘general pass’. It was a grandiose title for a piece of grubby paper that few revolutionaries would ever be able to read, and it had one big drawback: Onslow had to get close enough to show it. Without getting killed.

  Ten miles out from Santa Rosaria they turned off into the hills. There had been heliographs flashing messages for some time, and Onslow guessed they concerned the foursome heading towards the village.

  It was an eerie ride, like walking naked through a strange room where movement has been heard. There was that spine-prickling feeling of hidden eyes and silent guns. Guns aimed from cover. They rode with one hand on the reins, the other on their guns.

  Then the Villistas showed.

  Onslow was leading the way through a defile flanked on both sides by tall rock. Up ahead two men appeared. They wore wide sombreros and carried rifles. They stood silently, watching the riders approach.

  There was movement behind, and when Onslow turned to look back he saw three more men closing off the rear. He took his hand off his rifle butt and held it up in the air as he moved slowly forwards.

  Ten feet from the Mexicans, he halted and lowered his hand.

  ‘Buenas dias.’

  The two men said nothing. Their rifles lifted to aim at Onslow’s chest; their faces stayed impassive.

  ‘I have a note from Jesus Sanchez.’ Onslow was careful not to move his hands. ‘Shall I show you?’

  One of them shrugged. ‘Why? We can’t read. Your note is worthless.’

  ‘Jesus signed it because he wants us to bring you guns,’ said Onslow. Quickly. ‘You want guns, don’t you?’

  The Mexican laughed. ‘Of course we want guns. But Americans don’t bring them to us. Your government forbids it. Why are you here?’

  ‘To talk about guns.’ Onslow hoped he wasn’t about to get shot down by some crazy bandit. ‘Like I told you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ The rifle lifted up to point at his face. At that range the muzzle looked very big. ‘I think we’ll kill you.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Onslow.

  ‘Because I think you’re spying on us,’ said the Mexican. ‘I think you were sent up here by one of those American companies that want to help Huerta destroy us.’

  Onslow laughed. It was unexpected and it confused the bandit.

  ‘Listen,’ said Onslow quickly, ‘you look like a sensible man, one who knows what he’s doing. If we were spying, would we come riding in like this? Wouldn’t we spread out and skirt round you? We’d try to creep in, not ride up in broad daylight.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe you didn’t know we were here.’

  The rifle stayed pointed at his face.

  He said: ‘Pancho Villa will be angry if you kill us. I have a note for him, from Sanchez. We sold guns to Jesus and now we think we can get more for Pancho. Why not take us to him? If we are spies, you can kill us later.’

  ‘He talks sense.’ The second Mexican spoke at last. ‘Let’s take them in and see.’

  Onslow breathed a sigh of relief. He could feel sweat cold against his back as he realized his gamble was paying off.

  The Mexicans turned away, motioning for him to follow them. Onslow called his own people up to join him and they set off in a ragged line surrounded by wary guns.

  The defile opened up onto a hogback ridge. There were horses waiting there and six of the Mexicans mounted. The original pair led the way, the remaining four hanging back with drawn guns. The ridge wound westwards, giving way to a mountain meadow where sheep scattered nervously away from the horsemen. Beyond the meadow, the rock went up in long slabs of gray stone, the dull coloration broken by the green of pine trees and slick moss. The moss grew around a cleft, where a stream spilled out and meandered away to one side of the meadow. Its entry point was surrounded by trees and bushes and the cavalcade went that way. Beyond the trees the rock bulked up again, but cut, now, by the cleft. The horses splashed through the rustling water. The cleft was narrow enough to force them into riding single file between high banks of dark stone. The passageway was around fifty yards long, then it opened up into a grass-grown bowl with the stream fading into the rocks to the west. They crossed the bowl and entered a second ravine. Here, the walls pressed in close enough to make the horses nervous and killing very easy. It opened onto a wide ledge fallen out of the rock surrounding the canyon below.

  There was a trail leading down from the ledge. A machine-gun Onslow recognized as a Maxim was dug in to one side, surrounded by sandbags and manned by three Mexicans. It was sited to fire down the ravine, and when he looked back Onslow saw riflemen posted along the whole length of the upper ground.

  The trail was wide enough for three horses to move abreast and ran down the side of the canyon so that it was in full view of the ground below all the way down. The canyon was wide and grassy; fed by a secondary stream, there were pines growing all around. Towards the northern end was a large corral with upwards of fifty horses browsing the grass. There were tents and shacks spread out along the stream and a second machine-gun pointing up the slope. Two more covered the approach from the stream to the downfall of the trail.

  The whole area was alive with people. There were men in concho-studded pants and wide sombreros, mostly wearing bandoliers and carrying rifles. There were peons in cotton smocks and palm-leaf hats tending patches of vegetables and a mixed herd of sheep and goats held off against the western flank by busy dogs. There were women in a mixture of clothes. Some wore simply cotton skirts and loose-fitting blouses of the peasants; others had guns strapped about their waists; a few affected baggy cotton pants and bandoliers, like the men.