‘They were repaired,’ answered Villa. ‘Montoya commandeered work gangs from the town.’

  ‘How many men can you raise?’

  ‘How many should we need?’

  Onslow asked: ‘How many soldiers on the train?’

  Villa shrugged: ‘Around twenty. There’ll be a machine-gun in front of the engine and one behind the brake van. Maybe guards on the wagons, but most will be inside a carriage.’

  ‘We’ll need about fifty, then,’ said Onslow. ‘Split up into three groups. We’ll mine the tracks just outside of town so Montoya can’t send men up by rail, and where we plan to hit the train. Keep twenty back to delay any advance out of Santa Rosaria. They’ll have to hold up Montoya’s troops long enough for the wagons to get clear.

  ‘Twenty men to handle the wagons, clear the guns off and escort the drivers away. The other ten will handle the attack. The people with the wagons can help, but their main operation has to be getting the guns clear. The ten stay back as rearguard.’

  Villa nodded. ‘Fine. What else?’

  Onslow turned to the Kid. ‘Jamie? How much explosive?’

  Durham sipped his tequila before he answered. ‘We got any gelignite?’

  Villa shook his head.

  ‘That makes it harder, but I can still do it. I’ll need two mines and about twelve sticks of dynamite. Blasting caps and fuse wire. Two detonator boxes. That should do it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Onslow. ‘We’ll leave the group closest to Santa Rosaria to blow the track there. Jamie can handle the train. We’ll need two machine-guns. That should be enough.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Villa. ‘It will be arranged.’

  ‘We also need an escape route,’ said Onslow. ‘One that doesn’t leave tracks back to here.’

  ‘We’ll split up,’ said Villa. ‘We’ll all come back by different trails. Montoya will be so confused he won’t know who to follow.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Onslow. Thinking: I hope he follows me. It was his main reason for accepting the plan. As a military operation it was, at best, a chancy deal. There were too many variables: like not knowing where Montoya’s patrols would be; like mounting the whole thing close enough to enemy headquarters to risk immediate reprisal; like not being sure what kind of opposition might come from the train; like ... Hell! He wanted Montoya. That was still the main reason he was sitting here offering close on twenty years of military experience to a Mexican bandit he might have killed one year ago.

  He wanted Montoya.

  If this raid would bring the colonel out of his hideaway into the open, where he might be killed, then it was worthwhile,, ‘Let’s take a look at the tracks,’ he said, ‘and get it worked out.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ answered Villa. ‘That’s time enough. Like me, you must wait for your dreams to come true.’

  Onslow wondered if the Mexican was being sympathetic or sarcastic. There was no way to tell.

  The big black Packard broke down twice on the journey from Mexico City to Santa Rosaria. Once it was a punctured tire: Mexican roads—where they existed at all—were disgustingly bad and the car sloughed off into the ditch on the left-hand side of the road and burst one of the forward tires. The second time, it hit a hole and broke a tube carrying oil to the engine. It took the chauffeur three hours to fix the damage.

  Hiram Bender was angry: he hated delay.

  He could have gone north by train, but he didn’t like trains. They were too impersonal and too open to attack. No, he preferred to travel by automobile, despite the inconvenience. If it did nothing else—though it was mostly faster than a Mexican train, and infinitely more comfortable—it did impress people.

  People like Colonel Montoya.

  Did he have a car? Bender wondered. Not very likely: so it was a good move.

  There had been too much criticism lately, mostly of the way things were going in Mexico. American companies were losing too much money. The godforsaken rebels were scaring the shit out of the workers and investors alike. It was hard to find a peon who didn’t argue and was just thankful for work. And the people employing Hiram Bender were losing money as a result, cutting their losses and pulling their investments back across the border. Hiram allowed himself a curse—Shit!—and thought about what he, and people like him, had done for this pox-hole country.

  There was oil and cattle and sugar. Silver and copper and corn: work.

  Most of it went in one of two directions: into the pockets of American industrialists with the sense to exploit a country too retarded or lazy, or whatever, to use it all themselves; or into the bank balances—mostly balanced in foreign banks such as in France or Switzerland or Germany—of the hacendados.

  Out of that, Hiram Bender got paid.

  And why not?

  For God’s sake! American enterprise had woken up the international expectations of Mexico. And who could run the country better than the hacendados? After all, they worked in unison; at least they had with Diaz, and again since that liberal fool, Madero, got what was coming to him for upsetting the balance. The best thing for the country was to ally with America and supply cheap labor, both in terms of manpower and resources.

  Where else would they sell it all?

  Hiram Bender was in a very special position. He was only a cipher clerk in the United States of America’s embassy in Mexico City; but to his real bosses in Washington, he was the best agent they had in Mexico.

  And these rumors—no! these facts—coming in about American mercenaries were disturbing.

  Something had to be done about them. If nothing else, it was necessary to cut Mexico off from outside contact until the political situation settled down under Huerta and allowed business to proceed as normal.

  That was why Hiram Bender was going to Santa Rosaria.

  His main reason was to organize the immediate killing of Cade Onslow and his followers. They embarrassed the people paying Bender.

  Onslow checked his plan over with the others and went off to look at the rails. Jamie Durham chose his places and went back to work out exactly what he would need. Onslow concentrated on the main attack and the escape routes.

  The day before the train was due to arrive they got ready.

  It was the same day Hiram Bender reached Santa Rosaria.

  Chapter Twelve

  JAMIE DURHAM BIT down on the waxed cord in his mouth.

  When the thin strands of wire were sufficiently compressed he twisted them between his fingers and slotted them into the detonator.

  The detonator was hidden behind the remaining fragments of the adobe wall facing the tracks leading into Santa Rosaria. The wall was a forgotten remnant of the original town. Now, it was just a wreck, a left-over piece of history that provided a shelter for dogs and for drunks and smelled like it.

  But it was perfect for Jamie’s purpose.

  The wires led off to the rail tracks. They were covered with sand, swept over—carefully—during the night. They connected to the mine, which in turn was connected to the dynamite dug in around both sides of both rails. One shove on the plunger of the detonator and fifteen feet of track would explode into uselessness.

  Jamie explained the operation to a man called Hernandos. He understood the working—at least Jamie thought he did—and the American went over to his horse and set off for the main ambush.

  There he checked a longer stretch of rail.

  He set a mine inside the hole scooped out from under one length of rail. Wired the thing up to a stick of dynamite, and linked the wire to the sticks planted on the far side of the tracks. Then he walked back a few hundred paces and planted three sticks of explosives at intervals along the southernmost rail. The first load was connected up to a detonator two hundred yards from the track and hidden behind a fold of dusty rock. The second was on a time fuse that could be lit from behind the same cover.

  It was a guaranteed train trap.

  Onslow located one machine-gun a hundred feet ahead of the first batch of explosives and set the other fifty feet behind the second lot.

  Then they waited.

  Onslow and Strong manned the forward gun, McCloud and a Mexican took the second. Pancho Villa held back behind the ridge with twelve men, all armed with the weapons taken off the Nazce raid.

  The wagons stayed back out of sight.

  The train was late: they waited some more.

  The black Packard caused a minor sensation in Santa Rosaria.

  Its owner caused a far greater sensation, though that wasn’t on public display like the car: it mostly happened inside Montoya’s offices.

  Bender was angry by the time he got through the screen of uniformed guards and jumped-up lieutenants hiding Montoya from the outside world. When he reached the colonel’s ADC he showed his papers—presumably an officer close to the Colonel would understand what they meant. Or at least, what they implied.

  He still had to wait thirty minutes before seeing Montoya.

  And then the Mexican took five to study the papers.

  It was a calculated insult that Bender noted down in his mind and determined to repay. More immediately he let Montoya know the current situation.

  ‘Mexico City is worried about these mercenaries. I suppose General Huerta has spoken to you about that.’ He gave Montoya no time to reply. ‘At any rate, he has discussed the matter with me. They are embarrassing. Both to your government and mine; more so to the people I represent. What are you doing about them?’

  Montoya sucked in his breath, caught between throwing out this arrogant yanqui and siding with the moneyed people he obviously represented. The money won.

  ‘Everything I can. I have patrols out day and night. The stations are guarded, the tracks covered. What more can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ grated Bender. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Montoya chose to show his trump card.

  ‘These mercenaries you want to find,’ he said, ‘they are led by a man called Onslow, are they not?’

  Bender nodded.

  ‘I believe that Onslow feels some kind of personal vendetta in his work,’ said Montoya. ‘That he wants to kill me because I had to destroy his wife’s home. In that case, he will almost certainly attack the supply train due here tomorrow. When he does, I shall capture him and all his filthy gang.’

  ‘If,’ corrected Bender. ‘You can’t know he will attack. Not for sure.’

  ‘I think I can be sure,’ said Montoya. ‘I let word slip out that the train was loaded with armaments. It will be loaded with troops.’

  Bender came as close as he ever did to smiling.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘One hundred.’ Montoya reached for the brandy: he felt it was time. ‘They will be hidden in the carriages and under the tarpaulins of the wagons. The train will look like a normal munitions train, but it will carry four machine-guns and two mortars along with the soldiers. I think that will be enough to upset these damn’ rebels and their mercenary friends.’

  Bender accepted the brandy.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I think that might work.’

  It was a cool, clear night. The moon got up high and shone bright, lighting the way for more stars than a man had time to count. The pale luminescence shone dark off the muzzles of the machine-guns and the belts of ammunition spread alongside.

  It frosted the sweat on the backs of the horses so that men had to rub them down and cover them with blankets against the chill: it always paid to look after your mount. That might be your only escape.

  Jamie Durham came back from checking his charges and joined Onslow and the others around their fire. The fire was built into a hollow, shaded off from the railroad by the fold of land covering the Villista wagons. Jamie rubbed his hands, less from the cold than from anticipation of the morning.

  ‘All set up,’ he said. ‘I’ll check them over at dawn, but there won’t be any problem.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Onslow.

  They settled down to sleep.

  ‘One thing worries me, Colonel.’ Bender set his fork down and stared at Montoya. ‘Can you be sure they’ll attack?’

  Montoya shrugged. ‘No one can be sure of these rebels. Not even you, señor Bender. All we can do is hand them the bait and wait and see if they take it.’

  Bender forked up a potato. Chewed for a while before speaking.

  ‘But how do you know they know?’

  ‘I let word go out.’ Montoya waved a finger to summon the wine back to the table. He waited until both glasses were filled before speaking again, building the dramatic effect. ‘There is a lady here who sympathizes with the rebels. Her husband was some kind of minor official in Madero’s government. When he was executed she went over to the revolutionaries. She runs a school that she uses as cover for a rebel hideout. From time to time she shelters the bandits.’

  Bender put down his glass. ‘Why haven’t you arrested her?’ Montoya chuckled, enjoying his small triumph.

  ‘Why should I? One of her servants is in my pay. That’s how I learned of this attack. In fact, had the lady in question not been so close-mouthed about it, I might well have captured Onslow and his men a month ago. Unfortunately, they got away.’ He called for more wine. ‘They won’t escape again.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Bender.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Montoya. ‘I guarantee it.’

  Miranda Garcia de la Cruz wondered if the uneasy feeling she had felt since Onslow and the others left her house was due to nerves or some real premonition.

  The extra guards she had noticed in the avenue might be due to the increased activity around the town. On the other hand, they might be there because Montoya suspected her clandestine activities.

  Either way, they were troublesome, so she was very careful and sent word only through one of her most trusted servants. That was how Villa heard about the munitions train and Montoya heard about the impending attack. Manolo Blanez carried both messages. He got a smile from Miranda and thirty dollars from Montoya. Along with the promise that his family in Mexico City would remain unharmed—so long as he kept feeding information to the government forces.

  That was how he could tell Montoya the exact day when the raid was planned.

  And if the colonel didn’t know the exact place, he could at least make provision against the attack.

  Blanez was pleased with his thirty dollars. Added to what he had saved working for Miranda it came close to being enough to buy his wife and child a small house in the north. Somewhere in Sonora, he thought, or maybe in Coahuila. At any rate, some place more settled than Chihuahua. Montoya had promised to give him the best references. After the attack. And then Manolo could settle down and work without worrying about politics and all this intriguing.

  Colonel Montoya rose at dawn.

  He felt tired, his eyes were bleary and stayed the same way even after shaving and taking a cold-water bath. None the less, he ate a breakfast of eggs and toast and climbed onto his horse with only two brandies inside him. It didn’t pay to drink too much when you might be wounded.

  Hiram Bender breakfasted on coffee and a single egg. He wanted a clean and clear stomach to celebrate the demise of Onslow and the other gringos.

  Miranda Garcia de la Cruz ate two lightly boiled eggs and one slice of toast. And worried.

  Cade Onslow spooned up a mouthful of corn mash and washed it down with tepid water from his canteen. It was warm even at dawn, the night’s chill departing fast in the growing light of the sun. Beside him, Jonas Strong scrubbed the base of his plate clean with a tortilla and stretched his wide shoulders back in a slow, lazy movement.

  Yates McCloud upended his coffee cup and climbed to his feet.

  ‘I’m gonna take a piss.’

  ‘I’ll join you.’

  Jamie Durham stood up. ‘When’s the train due, Cade?’

  Onslow chuckled. ‘You got time. It won’t be through before nine.’

  ‘Good,’ said Durham. ‘Then we’ll wipe them out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Onslow. ‘Sure.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  SMOKE SHOWED ON the horizon, a drifting smudge against the brightness. The Villista next to Onslow stood up and ran down to the tracks. He knelt down, pressing one ear to the rails. Then looked back, smiling.

  ‘It’s coming!’

  Onslow climbed to his feet, lifting binoculars to his eyes. He adjusted the sighting rings and stood, peering intently to the east. As yet the train was indistinct, a faint shape dark against the yellow landscape. He lowered the binoculars and calculated the distance: it would be thirty minutes before the locomotive reached their position, ample time for a rider to get back to Hernandos and tell him when to blow the track.

  He walked over to Villa and asked for a man to be sent off.

  Then they waited.

  It felt like a long time.

  The train got closer, its contours taking firm shape through the heat haze as it approached. There was a flatbed in front of the engine, sandbags piled up and roped in place around three sides. Behind the bags, the bulky muzzle of a Maxim machine-gun jutted out, behind that the figures of two men in the gray uniforms of the federales. Then the locomotive and the tender. Immediately behind, a solitary carriage with two soldiers at either end, on the observation platforms, and shutters over the windows. Behind the carriage were three flatbeds, each one bulky with tarpaulin-shrouded cargo. Then the brake van and a final flatbed, like the first bulked up with sandbags and a machine-gun.

  Onslow swung the Lewis gun from side to side, checking the angle of fire. He slotted the safety catch back and squatted behind the ugly-looking weapon with his hands on the pistol grip, his right index finger stroking gently against the file-roughened trigger. Jonas Strong readjusted the box of cartridges, angling it round so that the belt would feed through unencumbered.