Strong pumped the action of the Browning. The snap of the loading grip was a comment in itself.

  ‘It can’t be Manolo.’ The woman’s lovely face got worried. ‘I’d trust him with my life.’

  ‘Could be you are,’ said Strong. ‘A man’ll do a lot for his family.’

  He looked at Onslow as he said it. Onslow nodded, then turned back to face Miranda.

  ‘Who took the message to Villa?’

  ‘Manolo.’ She got frown-lines. ‘He was the only one. Ibanez can’t speak and I didn’t trust putting it in writing. Juan and Maria are too old.’

  The lantern illuminating the cellar flickered. Jamie Durham groaned in his sleep. McCloud said, ‘Jesus Christ!’ Strong began to thumb ought-ought shells into the Browning.

  Onslow said: ‘Let’s talk to him.’

  Manolo Blanez faced the stares of Onslow, Strong and McCloud with a bland expression that hid the gut-churning fear threatening to spill his bowels into his cotton trousers.

  ‘Que es?’ he asked innocently. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘How much you get?’ said Onslow.

  ‘Lo siento, señor. I don’t understand.’

  ‘You took word to Villa.’ This from Strong.

  ‘Si. About the raid.’

  ‘About the ambush,’ McCloud corrected. ‘You told Montoya.’

  ‘No.’ Manolo shook his head. ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘How much did they pay you?’

  ‘I don’t understand, señor. Who paid me?’

  ‘Montoya,’ said Onslow. ‘You sent the money to your wife.’

  ‘No! I haven’t sent it yet. I was ...’

  Blanez broke off, his lips trembling. He looked from face to face and began to shudder.

  ‘I had to,’ he groaned. ‘I swear to God! They said they’d kill her. The child, too.’

  ‘How’d they find out you’d know something like that?’ Onslow asked. ‘Why would they come to you.’

  Blanez broke down. Literally. He crumpled at the knees and spread his hands over his face. Tears welled from between his fingers and his torso shuddered as he sobbed. A dark stain spread across his crotch, began to foul his thighs.

  ‘I went to them. Little Manuel was sick and the doctors charge so much money. I needed the money for the baby. I swear it, señores. That was why. I would not have done it otherwise.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ muttered Onslow. ‘What the hell now? What do we do with him?’

  ‘Kill him,’ snarled McCloud. ‘Rotten goddam traitor.’

  Onslow sniffed. Turned to Strong. ‘What d’you say?’

  Strong shrugged. ‘Like I said before: a man’ll do a lot for his family. Trouble is, he wasn’t forced into it—he offered the deal. He could’ve told Miranda about his troubles. The fact is that a lot of men died because of him. It could happen again.’

  ‘So?’ Onslow felt reluctant to pronounce the obvious verdict. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Kill him,’ repeated McCloud. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Onslow shook his head, then looked at Strong. The Negro nodded.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Onslow. ‘I guess I have to.’

  Blanez clasped his hands together and began to pray. Onslow eased his Colt out, checked the magazine. The cellar was very still.

  Then McCloud’s gun blasted.

  Blanez’ head jerked back. His greasy hair flew up as a spatter of red sprayed into the air. From his back, between the shoulders, came a thicker gout of blood, bright where the lung pumped out through the hole. McCloud fired again, shattering the Mexican’s face. At that range the shot tossed the man back so that he landed in the puddle of crimson and gray blown from his skull and body.

  McCloud stared at the corpse, then turned to look at Onslow.

  ‘It matters to you,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t to me. I owe you that much.’

  Onslow eased the hammer of the Colt down and slid the gun back into the holster. He didn’t speak. Just nodded and went out of the cellar into the night. He stood in the garden for a long time, sucking in deep lungfuls of air and listening to the sounds.

  There was a nightjar shrieking somewhere to his right, the strident cries answered by nervous chuckling from doves and the shrill chatter of an angry thrush. There was also the sound of two men dragging a corpse away.

  He didn’t look round to see where they buried it.

  The ironic thing was that Emmanuelle Blanez was dead.

  Had been for some months.

  She had gone to the cathedral in Mexico City to pray for her son. As she came out she walked straight into the machine-guns of the troopers defending the Imperial Palace. She was one more victim of the Decena Tragica. Little Manuel was left alone. By the time anyone heard his faint cries he was too far gone into sickness and hunger to save. He died two days after his mother.

  Like his father, he was a victim of circumstance.

  Onslow decided to risk an attack on the tenth day.

  By then he knew that Montoya was holding close to the alcalde’s residence and that a mysterious American with a big black car was in frequent conference with the Mexican. Miranda Garcia de la Cruz had transferred whatever money she had in the bank elsewhere. She had arranged for her servants to go to another household and paid them handsomely for their loyalty. Juan and Maria found posts with a family sympathetically cautious about their support of the revolution in Coahuila. Ibanez went off to join Villa.

  Miranda herself packed a few books and a few pictures and arranged to quit Santa Rosaria by night.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘I hope you all survive.’

  Jamie Durham grinned under his patch and mumbled something incoherent.

  Jonas Strong took her hand and shook it and thanked her.

  Yates McCloud bowed low and kissed her hand.

  ‘A real honor to have known you, ma’am. I trust we’ll meet again in pleasanter circumstances.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Onslow, ‘they’ll be watching for you.’

  She smiled. Then reached up to kiss him.

  ‘Take care yourself,’ she murmured, ‘we need men like you.’

  They watched her go, then moved into position.

  The hacienda was mined. Miranda hadn’t been able to locate very much explosive, but she had got hold of two small kegs of blasting powder and about a dozen sticks of dynamite. Jamie Durham had brought as many more with him and now the hacienda was rigged up with sufficient to start a fire and wake the town. There were horses quartered south of the trail tracks with food and water and ammunition stowed in the saddlebags.

  All that remained was to kill Montoya.

  Onslow left Jamie Durham in charge of the diversion, McCloud to cover the Kid’s escape from the house. Jonas Strong was to go with him and cover his own getaway.

  The diversion was timed for midnight.

  There were the two kegs of powder placed inside the house, along with most of the dynamite. Jamie held three sticks back in case they were needed later, and Onslow had one with him on a five second fuse.

  They split up at eleven o’clock.

  Onslow and Strong drifted down through the quiet streets. There were patrols out and a big black car parked in front of the Palacio hotel.

  The acalde’s building faced the Palacio across the plaza. It was flanked by alleyways with federales at all the ends. Behind the building, Santa Rosaria gave way to the streets leading off to the richer houses. The two men made a long detour that fetched them up behind the headquarters.

  There were four soldiers lounging at intervals along the rear porch. They carried rifles and looked bored. Onslow passed the dynamite to Strong and gestured at the right-hand alley.

  ‘When Jamie’s stuff goes off,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll take the guards. You block the alley.’

  Strong nodded.

  The clock mounted in front of the building whirred into motion.

  It struck the first of its twelve chimes.

  The second.

  Strong pulled matches from his shirt. Onslow already had the Mauser clipped against the stock, sighting on the guard farthest to the left.

  The third chime came belling out.

  There was a roar of sound that seemed to wash over the town like sudden thunder. Off to the east bright flame spurted into the sky. It was reflected back against the low cloud, first yellow, then bright red. Then a dull, roaring glow that stood out against cloud and roiling smoke.

  ‘Now,’ said Onslow. And squeezed the trigger.

  He felt the Mauser buck against his shoulder. Saw the first federale go down with blood on his chest. Fired again.

  Again.

  And twice more.

  Strong was up and running. He reached the corner of the alley and lit the fuse.

  Onslow was inside the building, slamming the rearward door open as he plunged through with the Mauser stuck out in front.

  An explosion rocked the eastern wall. Then there was the thunder of the Browning going off. Two soldiers gaped and stared at him. He shot them down.

  He reached the stairs and started up. A startled trooper showed at the head. Onslow swung the Mauser, pumping bullets into the man.

  The federale fell back with blood all over his chest. The Mauser clicked and sprang the spent magazine loose. Onslow dragged it clear and thumbed a new load into the chamber.

  He got up the stairs and saw two rifles pointing at him.

  They went off together, spanging chips of sweat-stained wood from the banisters. Onslow went down in a belly-thumping dive and fired as he landed. The nearest soldier stumbled back with a hole in his face that bled his brains over the wall behind. The second man coughed blood from his mouth and the holes in his chest and dropped his rifle as he doubled over.

  A bullet tore the carpet six inches in front of Onslow’s face. He twisted round, triggering the Mauser as he rolled. Something tore into his left arm and he felt the sudden spread of sticky warmth along his bicep. He lay back, firing blind, and saw three more federales tumble over as the 7.63mm slugs tore through their bellies.

  The Mauser chunked and spat the spent clip up through the loading gate. Onslow slapped the empty holder clear and reached for a fresh load. His left arm felt numb and when he tried to shove the new clip down into the gate his hand couldn’t hold it. Blood spilled over his fingers and let the clip go, cradling the heavy-caliber automatic as he reached down to draw the Colt on his hip.

  A door opened.

  A gun barked.

  Onslow rolled, ignoring the pain in his arm as he came up on his knees and fired back.

  The door closed. But not before he had time to see Montoya’s face.

  He dropped the Colt and jammed the Mauser between his knees. It was awkward, but he got the thing loaded and cocked the hammer.

  Then he stood up and shot the lock away from the door. It took most of the shells and he used the remainder to punch holes across the woodwork of the door before he kicked it open.

  He shoved the Mauser into his belt and drew the Colt.

  Montoya was over against the far wall, crouched down behind an overturned couch with a Luger stuck out around one side.

  Onslow fired twice, aiming his shots at where he thought the arm should be.

  The Luger dropped away. Montoya screamed.

  Onslow kicked the door closed and heeled a chair over so that it fell across the frame.

  ‘Stand up!’ he shouted. ‘Stand up, you goddam bastard.’

  A hand showed on the topside of the couch. There was a moan and then Montoya lurched to his feet. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. He wore a uniform that had medal ribbons pinned across the upper part of the left-side pocket and a dark stain over the front of the matching jodhpurs. There was a darker stain down the left sleeve stemming from the wounds at wrist and elbow. The stain got wider and darker as Onslow watched.

  ‘Please,’ said Montoya. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Onslow. ‘I promised you.’

  And triggered the Colt.

  The .45 caliber slug hit Montoya’s right shoulder and jumped his hand clear from his wounds. It hit exactly on the joint, shattering his bones and tendons so that the arm flopped loose by his side. It came out behind and spread blood over the wall. Montoya slumped back under the impact and began to shake his head.

  ‘Come out,’ snarled Onslow. ‘Get out from behind that goddam chair.’

  ‘No,’ moaned the colonel. ‘I can’t.’

  Onslow held the Colt out at arm’s length.

  ‘Do it,’ he rasped. ‘Now.’

  Montoya came out.

  He staggered, tears flooding down his fat cheeks. There was the acrid stink of urine and the nauseating odor of voided bowels as he moved. He shook his head, wobbling his chins.

  ‘I promised you,’ repeated Onslow. ‘I told you I’d kill you if you killed Linda.’

  And fired again.

  The bullet hit Montoya in the groin. It punched through his lower abdomen and broke his pelvis as it came out. The Mexican doubled over with vomit spilling from his mouth.

  Onslow went on firing. He shot Montoya in the back as the man’s head sank down, scoring a bloody line across his ribs. Then in the chest as Montoya lurched upwards. Twice more, there. Then through the neck. Then the face.

  Montoya died before the last three bullets hit him. One had ruptured his lungs, another had exploded his heart. The last few just broke bones and tore up flesh that couldn’t feel any more.

  There was blood all over his uniform, washing down to stain the tailored cloth and hide the vomit and the urine and the feces. His body was broken up and his face was no longer recognizable. Huge holes spread a wild pattern over his back and from under his body there spread a growing pool of blood that clouded over the designs of the carpet.

  Onslow’s Colt snapped open, the mechanism thrusting the empty magazine clear of the butt. He began to reload, but a pounding on the door broke his attention and he snapped out of the killing fury that had consumed him.

  He went over to the window.

  There was blood all over the frame. It was spread over the wall around, thick on the carpet and the overturned couch. The room was heavy with its stink; that and the odor of cordite.

  The pounding on the door got louder and the chair began to move.

  Onslow took a deep breath and hurled himself through the window.

  The glass shattered, releasing a thick cloud of smoke. Onslow went down onto the roof of the porch. Through the tiles. Hit the boards and rolled across the body of a dead federale. His arm pained him as he landed but he got up to his feet and ran towards the rear alley.

  Shots followed him, then the sudden thunder of Strong’s Browning.

  The federales jumped back as the window frame blew loose and ought-ought shot filled the room.

  Strong pumped the big scattergun three times more, then followed Onslow down the alley.

  A burst of pistol fire echoed after them and they hit cover as seven carefully placed shots ricocheted off the adobe.

  Onslow swung round, lifting the fresh-loaded Mauser to his shoulder.

  He fired five times, spacing his bullets across the window frame, and saw a man in a dark uniform jump back behind the cover of the wall. He thought he recognized the figure he had seen driving the big black car, but he couldn’t be sure and it wasn’t the time to check.

  ‘Come on!’ Strong shouted. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  Onslow nodded and followed the Negro.

  There was an ugly nagging doubt in his mind. About the man in the chauffeur’s uniform and the black Packard and the man in the white suit who seemed to have a whole lot too much to do with the federales.

  He wondered if he would see the two men or the car again. Then forgot about them as he made his way clear of the town.

  Montoya was dead, so a part of the score was settled. But only a part: the wounds went deeper. The murderer of Linda was a cog, that was all—just a cog in the awful machine that was grinding Mexico down. The real killer was the system: the government; Huerta; the hacendados. Barely aware of his own thinking, Cade Onslow reached a decision that he couldn’t rightly explain even to himself. It didn’t matter about the Hoyos lands anymore: what counted was to push the revolution on. To help Villa. To help Mexico find democracy.

  That might make up for Linda’s death.

  Santa Rosaria was alive with troopers and townsfolk. They were running in every direction, some trying to find out what was happening inside the alcalde’s building, others gaping at the blasted wall and the dead soldiers, more rushing to watch or fight the fire blazing to the east.

  Onslow and Strong got clear. They got back to the horses and found McCloud and Jamie Durham waiting. They mounted up and rode out fast.

  In the morning they were ten miles south of the town. Onslow’s arm was hurting badly and attracting flies, so they halted while Strong checked the wound.

  It was a big hole, but the bullet had gone in through the flesh and come out behind. In time it would heal over with no real harm done.

  Like memories.

  Like Mexico.

  They rested up for three days, living off the food Miranda Garcia had packed for them. Then Onslow declared himself ready to ride again.

  ‘Where?’ Oddly enough it was Yates McCloud who asked the question. ‘Where you taking us now?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ said Onslow.

  ‘Not really,’ said McCloud, ‘I guess it’s just the going that counts.’

  They got up on their horses and rode away.

  About J. D. Sandon

  J. D. Sandon is the pseudonym for the writing team of Angus Wells and John Harvey.

  Angus Wells (26 March 1943–11 April 2006) was a British writer of genre fiction, including fantasy and, most famously, westerns. In addition to a few standalone novels written under his own name, Wells wrote under numerous pseudonyms, including Andrew Quiller (The Eagles), James A. Muir (Breed), Charles R. Pike (Jubal Cade), William S. Brady (Hawk and Peacemaker), Charles C. Garrett (Gunslinger), Richard Kirk (Raven), J. B. Dancer (The Lawmen) and Ian Evans. Encouraged by Laurence James, he left an editorial job in publishing in 1975 and became a freelance writer.