Yates McCloud went through the same checks on the second Lewis, then drew his Colt and checked the load. The Mexican beside him grinned and clenched his hand in a victory sign.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said McCloud.

  He said it in English, so the man didn’t understand him, but the meaning was obvious and the grin got wider, exposing dirty teeth and a waft of bad breath.

  ‘Get it ready, Jamie,’ said Onslow.

  The Kid chuckled and snapped the catches clear of the detonator box. He flipped the lid back and sprang the clips clear of the handle. Then he drew the spade-grip up to its full height. It made a loud clicking noise as the contact points dropped into line.

  The train got closer still.

  Heat played patterns in the air around the smoke stack, shrouding the forward part of the locomotive behind a cloud of smoke and dancing mist.

  It crossed the rearward charges.

  The Kid lifted up on his knees and threw his weight down on the plunger.

  Nine pounds of dynamite exploded under the center of the forward flatbed. The blast went up through the base of the wagon, lifting it into the air like a paper kite kicked by a destructive child. Sandbags flew loose and the machine-gun barked a brief message against the sky as the gunner’s hand closed on the firing trigger. Just before he slid away down one side of the ruptured wagon.

  The engine plowed on, splintering the remnants of the flatbed and pulping the man who fell down into the crack. It went on over the divided rails and churned sand for two hundred yards. Then it pitched over on its side and blew more sand away as the boiler heated up. It hauled the tender and the carriage off the tracks, spilling both over into the bulk beyond.

  Onslow began to fire.

  He swung the Lewis gun to the left, sighting on the carriage. The machine-gun bucked under his hands, spitting lead into the roof of the overturned car. Men screamed. The machine-gun stitched holes along the roof. Hands and faces showed through the windows. Onslow shot them away.

  Behind him, the Villistas opened up.

  The first flatbed was halfway off the tracks, crushed up against the load behind. McCloud began to fire, chuckling as he saw spurts of dust bounce from the sandbags. A federale screamed and fell clear of the Maxim. His companion jumped to the gun. McCloud danced the Lewis over in a tight pattern that punched huge red holes across the Mexican’s face. Spilled him back behind the sandbags. He swung the gun to traverse the side of the brake wagon. Chuckled again as the holes stitched insane patterns along the sides.

  Then, like claps of distant thunder, the mortars opened up.

  The flatbed behind the locomotive was hauled partway off the tracks, tilted over so that the angle of fire was altered to a lower trajectory. One that sent the shells out in a wide, flat arc that plumed dust and fragments of metal up from the ground ten yards behind the Villista wagons. The gunners adjusted their sights, training the mortars in towards the machine-guns. On the way they succeeded in dropping nine shells onto the wagons and horses and men.

  On the central car two Maxims opened up, spreading a wide pattern of fire that swung all the way down the Villista lines.

  Then the second mortar came into play.

  Still mounted steady on the rails, and bulked out behind sandbags, the gunners placed a neat triangle of shells around Yates McCloud’s position.

  McCloud turned his gun towards the car. He fired a short burst towards the rear flatbed. Then his machine-gun went dead. He turned to curse the Mexican loader. And saw the man slump back with both his hands pressed tight over the hole in his stomach. Something whistled past McCloud’s head. Plopped onto the sand and began to stain it red. It was a boot. The foot was still inside, with jagged pieces of bone sticking up to remind him. McCloud dived clear of his gun and crawled behind the ridge to join Onslow.

  ‘What in the goddam hell’s going on?’

  There was no answer. Onslow and Strong were trading fire with the guns mounted on the train. Federales were crawling loose from the wreckage and adding rifle fire to the cackle of the machine-guns and the thudding of the mortars. Villa’s men were dying as they tried to pick off the machine-gunners, and their horses were getting killed.

  McCloud grabbed Onslow’s arm, hauling the gun off course so that it sprayed splinters from the empty brake van.

  Onslow cursed.

  McCloud said: ‘They set a trap. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘How?’ Onslow shook his arm clear and went on firing.

  ‘Christ! They must have the whole goddam train loaded up with soldiers.’ McCloud was genuinely scared. ‘They must’ve known we were raiding them.’

  ‘You want to run, then run,’ snarled Onslow. ‘Go on, if you can make it, good luck.’

  McCloud glanced back. There was a line of dust bursts spread out behind them. Each one was flowered with bright red at the center, then yellow, and finally cloudy brown where dust—real dust—and flesh and blood and bone mingled together.

  The line was moving closer.

  Onslow’s gun fell silent. Jonas Strong snapped another belt into the loading gate. The Lewis began its racketing again.

  Onslow spoke as he fired.

  ‘We can’t get away. They got us covered too well. How far d’you think you’d make?’

  McCloud looked back and saw two horses and five Villistas climb into the air on bloodstained strings that ended where the explosions cut off and dropped them back to the ground. Then he ducked down as the federale machine-guns blew a neat line of dirt into their faces.

  ‘I can do it.’

  Jamie Durham crawled up beside them. There was blood on the leather patch covering his face and he was smiling.

  ‘Give me cover an’ I’ll take them out.’

  ‘How?’ asked Onslow. ‘They’ve got us pinned down.’

  ‘Just trust me,’ said the Kid. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘All right.’ Onslow doubted it would work, whatever the plan was, but he didn’t have much choice. ‘I’ll cover you.’

  He opened up with the machine-gun as Jamie crawled away to the rear of the train.

  Jamie crawled back until he was level with the second charge of explosives. Then he wriggled up over the edge of the ridge and across to the tracks. The mortars and machine-guns were still pounding into the Villistas, and the federales weren’t paying much attention to their back trail. He got up onto the rails and dug his dynamite loose. There were three sticks. Each one was linked by wire and caps to the points he had worked out earlier. It took him fifteen minutes to disconnect them all. Then ten more to refuse the sticks with short tapers.

  He set the first with a five-second fuse. The second with a four, and the last one with a horribly dangerous two-second wire.

  Then he crawled up towards the train and wriggled over to the far side.

  He could see Onslow’s machine-gun flaming from under the wheels of the flatbeds and hear the ricochets dancing off the metal of the bodywork, the dull thud of the bullets landing in the sandbags.

  He lit the first fuse. Stood up. Lobbed it towards the flatbed carrying the rearward mortar.

  It was the four-second fuse. It landed behind the gunners. They failed to notice its falling beneath the detonations of their gun. Until it went off.

  When it did, it blasted the mortar and the gunners up into the sky in a sticky welter of mingled flesh and broken metal. The backflash detonated three shells that tore the base of the flatbed apart and barraged the central wagon with flying fragments of hot metal and soggy chunks of bleeding flesh.

  The second stick, timed on only two seconds, exploded directly over the machine-gunners. It smashed them down against their weapons, tipping the guns over so that when they tried to stand up and fire again the Villistas picked them off easily.

  The third stick landed inside the carriage.

  It went in through a broken window and by the time the soldiers inside had realized what it was, the fuse was burned down too low to damp it out. Contained inside the walls of the carriage, the dynamite went off with devastating effect. It tore walls and doors loose, shattered what little glass remained unbroken, ruptured the floor. To the men inside it was like hell burst out and come to claim them. The shockwave killed most, plastering them like slugs against the roof and walls. Several more died with chunks of metal or wood driven through their bodies. More still bled to death as flying glass and sharp fragments of metal ripped veins and arteries open and filled the car with the stench of heated blood.

  The survivors panicked and fought to climb clear. Three men were stamped to death in the rush. The others were shot by Onslow and the Villistas as they came out.

  The last mortar ceased firing. The men handling it stood up with their hands in the air, recognizing the futility of their task.

  Onslow swung his gun to bear on them. His hands gripped tight on the firing handle. Then he turned towards Strong.

  The Negro was watching him, a belt of ammunition in his pale palms. He said nothing: just watched. Onslow shook his head and let his hands fall away from the machine-gun.

  Then the Villistas opened fire, and the federales pitched backwards with blood staining their faces and the dull gray of their uniforms.

  Pancho Villa stood up and waved a pistol.

  For a long time there was the sound of shots and the sound of screams.

  Afterwards, silence. And the smell of blood mingled with cordite.

  Hernandos blew the tracks exactly on time.

  He did it the way Jamie Durham had shown him, afterwards pausing only long enough to disconnect the detonator box and stow it behind his saddle. Then, as arranged, he took up position with the others, ready to delay any advance out of Santa Rosaria. There were only twenty-one of them, but the way they had it worked out that should be enough. With the train late and the rails broken close to town, Montoya had to assume a Villista attack. He would therefore send out a patrol. It was unlikely the patrol would consist of more than twenty men, thirty at the most, because the attack could be a decoy, designed to leave the town undefended. The Villistas’ intelligence set the number of federale troops inside Santa Rosaria at no more than five hundred. That was the total, of which at least two hundred were already patrolling the hinterland. Montoya would need the bulk of his remaining men to defend the town against an all-out attack. Chances were, then, that he’d scout the line and hold his main force in reserve.

  Hernandos didn’t know that fifteen Villistas had been killed in the ambush. Didn’t know that only fourteen, including Onslow and his men, were still alive. Didn’t know that nine of those were wounded badly.

  Didn’t know that Montoya was sending a squadron of fifty riders up the line.

  He didn’t know that Montoya had set a trap of his own.

  He found out with dramatic suddenness.

  The Villistas were relying on their usual tactics of a fast strike and a faster escape. They had their horses ready, pegged behind their defense line. Two men were detailed to handle the animals, the others bunched both sides of the rails. They had one machine-gun, a Hawkins, and they were all armed with bolt-action rifles, mostly Mannlichers.

  The federales hit them in three waves.

  The first came head on into the Villista guns. At the first sign of opposition they split out in apparent confusion. Hernandos chuckled and wasted half a belt of cartridges trying to hit the fleeing riders.

  Then a bunch of men charged the position. Hernandos fired some more and thought he was winning.

  Then two columns came in from the sides.

  They came in fast, firing all the way. The Villistas got divided up and Hernandos panicked. He swung his machine-gun away from the frontal attack as bullets spanged over his head from both sides. By the time he realized he couldn’t hit the flankers, the main charge was on him. He swore as he triggered the Hawkins.

  Then a pistol shot hit his shoulder. It broke the bone just above the joint of his left arm. Blood clouded his shirt and the arm drooped useless by his side. He tried to fire the Hawkins right-handed, but the gun bucked too much to control and when it ran empty he saw his loader was dead with a bullet through his skull.

  Hernandos left the machine-gun and drew his pistol. It was a Colt Thunderer, and he shot two federales neatly between the eyes. Then the horses were going past him and he felt a numbing blow that spun him round and blanked out his vision. When he opened his eyes again he felt blood on his face. He looked up at a soldier leaning sideways from the saddle to swing a saber down in a curving arc.

  It landed across Hernando’s wrist.

  His right hand fell away.

  Blood gouted from the stump and the Villista gasped and reached down towards his pistol. He set his foot on the stub of his hand and dragged the gun clear of the dead fingers. He picked it up. In time to see another horse charging at him.

  ‘Viva la Liberation!’

  A sword landed between his eyes. It cut his face from scalp to jaw, separating his nose from his cheeks. Blinding him. He fell down. Staggered upright and began to fire wild.

  There was another blow, heavier, but somehow less cutting. He drew a breath and realized his mouth was filled with blood. He wiped the stump of his right arm across his face and saw a federale lean back to plant a second bullet in his body.

  He fell down on his knees.

  Blood pumped from his severed wrist. It dripped from his face. It stained his shirt. It weighed him down and made his head spin. He fought to stand up again, but he couldn’t make it.

  He collapsed across the body of his loader and fought the pain and the blindness as he levelled his Colt on the nearest horseman.

  He dragged the hammer back. It was painful doing it with a stump of bone. But it was surer than trigger-fire. Blood swelled over the hammer and the cylinder. Viva la Liberation! He squeezed the trigger.

  Lieutenant Manuel Ramanos opened his mouth and spat blood over his horse’s face. At the same time he slumped forwards and fell over the animal’s neck. The horse bucked. It tossed the lieutenant from the saddle and ran wild through the line of waiting, satisfied troopers.

  Ramanos was dead before he hit the ground. Hernandos’ bullet had broken his spine and punctured his right lung. It tore out through his chest, taking two ribs with it, so that the officer’s neat uniform was spoiled by his own blood.

  ‘Viva la Liberation!’

  Hernandos levered upright on his stump. He was beyond pain now. At least, the pain was an all-consuming thing that occupied his whole body so that individual hurts went unnoticed.

  He was half blind. His face hung in tatters. His right hand was gone. There was blood oozing from his chest and back and shoulder. He got up on his knees and fired again.

  ‘Viva la Liberation!’

  It came out in a thick muddy slur. Not really words; just a declaration. Blood spouted from his mouth and nostrils as he said it. Indistinct to the federales, the mumblings of a dying man.

  But to Hernandos it was everything.

  It was a free Mexico. It was what it meant. It was liberty and life. The right to work and own land. The right to work the fields without someone coming to take them away. The right to decide his own destiny. On his own. Without anyone telling him how to do it. Or why.

  The bullets hit him and picked him up and blew him backwards. They tore his chest and ribs and his face apart. If the wife he had left behind could see him, she wouldn’t recognize him. Three rifle slugs hit his face. They tore out his left eye and broke his nose, his jaw and the upper part of his skull. Seven more went through his body, spread out between his hips and his neck. They broke most of his ribs, punctured both lungs, and took his heart apart in pieces that sprayed out through the massive hole in his back.

  The federales laughed and rode on.

  A mile up the line they rendezvoused with Montoya and Hiram Bender.

  Seven troopers were dead and nine wounded, four of them seriously. The entire Villista group was wiped out. In the distance they could hear the dull thudding of the mortars and the sharper crackling of the machine-guns.

  ‘So, the first part is done.’ Montoya looked pleased with himself. ‘Now we shall mop up the rest.’

  He adjusted his cap and called for his horse to be brought up. When he was mounted he looked down at Bender.

  ‘Will you come with us?’

  The American shook his head. ‘No. The car’s not designed for rough country.’

  ‘I can offer you a mount,’ suggested Montoya.

  ‘I don’t favor horseback riding,’ said Bender coldly. ‘I leave that for soldiers.’

  Montoya stiffened, a retort forming as anger mingled with triumph. He thought better of it: this unlikeable yanqui had powerful friends, best to play along with him for now.

  ‘I’ll bring you the gringos,’ he said. ‘Maybe Pancho Villa, too.’

  ‘You do that,’ nodded Bender. When he was inside the car he added: ‘If you can.’

  By then Montoya was gone, taking his column off to the east at a fast canter. Bender leaned forwards to tap the chauffeur on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get back to town.’ The Packard coughed exhaust fumes and swung round in a wide circle. The driver went slowly, wary of the treacherous road, until he got onto the firmer surface of the main highway. It wasn’t a properly paved road like any halfway decent American town would have, but at least it was smoother going than the damn’ goat-trail out. He appreciated that small mercy: his boss got mean when he was shaken up.

  It was hot inside the car and he was grateful when they reached the center of Santa Rosaria: he was looking forward to a beer. The stuff the Mexicans brewed wasn’t a patch on the drink that made his hometown famous, but at least it was wet. And maybe this time it might be cold, too.

  Onslow watched the Villistas load their wounded. Most of them were riding double because too many of the horses had been killed in the fight and there weren’t enough to go round. Villa wanted to carry off the machine-guns, but he was forced to abandon them when he saw there was no way to transport them. He was in a foul temper.