‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have a problem. You’re all aware of the events taking place south of the border. Major Onslow probably understands them better than any of us.’

  Onslow kept a straight face, saying nothing. He had little time for Holden, a West Pointer with enough relatives in the Army and the Senate to guarantee him a command posting even though he lacked the experience to handle a border fort effectively. And knew that the commanding officer had even less for anyone not born into officer class. But Holden’s position was inviolate, he commanded Fort Brigg, and the fort was one of the chain running along the border from south Texas all the way to California. That Holden resented Onslow’s new-found fortune was a personal thing: it had nothing to do with military affairs. Onslow nodded and said nothing.

  ‘There have been a series of raids,’ said Holden. ‘Most of them organized by Pancho Villa, or his lieutenants. Three days ago a band of Mexicans crossed over the border and attacked the bank at Reyes Bravos. They killed four people and got away with five thousand dollars in gold. They detoured on the way back to lift nearly seven hundred head of cattle from the Tres Picos ranch, and shot two cowhands in the process. They went back to Sonora. We know that because a detachment of Arizona Rangers followed them as far as Aqua Prieta. We now have word they are planning a second raid. It appears they need the money to buy guns to oppose President Huerta.’

  He paused, staring round the room.

  ‘We shall stop them, gentlemen. We shall be waiting for them when they come over the line and we shall kill them. In that way we shall persuade the damn’ Mexicans that American ground is sacred. Do you agree?’

  He stared hard at Onslow as he said it.

  Onslow stared back. ‘Let me go after them,’ he said. ‘I know the country and the people. I’ll find them sooner than anyone else.’

  ‘No,’ said Holden, ‘I want you here. Captain Harvey will lead the party. He, at least, is disinterested in Mexican politicals. Forgive me if this upsets your plans, Major. But I’m sure you understand the need for direct action.’

  Onslow nodded and kept his mouth shut tight.

  Harvey left Fort Brigg early in the morning. He went out at the head of a column of cavalry armed with carbines and side pistols. He was miles into Mexican territory when the Villistas jumped him.

  The column was skirting round a long flank of sun-browned hills with a dry river running dead and dusty to the west, beyond the wash a wide, flat expanse of open plain ran out towards the Sierra Madre. The wash and the foothills held Harvey’s column in a tight line, three abreast in the widest parts. Harvey had scouts out, two Apaches from the Agua Caliente village, and a Yaqui.

  Not one of the trio gave any warning at all. Mostly because they were dragged from their horses by the lariats that settled around their throats and yanked them to the ground, cutting off their wind as the Villistas ran down to slit their throats before loosening the ropes and taking the horses off under cover.

  Jonathan Harvey rode on into a simon-pure ambush that wiped out his whole command.

  The first volley lifted the officer clear of his saddle and spread him out on the ground with nine holes in his chest and stomach and legs. Then the Hawkins machine-gun the Villistas had dragged up to the head of the pass opened fire and decimated the other soldiers. Twenty-nine men were killed. Seventeen fell to the machine-gun and the rifles; nine were shot on foot, with revolvers or stolen automatics. The remaining three were hacked to death with machetes.

  One trooper got away and took the news back to Fort Brigg.

  When Cade Onslow heard about it he made up his mind: he and Harvey were good friends from a long way back and he didn’t like to think of his friend getting shot by a gang of Mexican rustlers. He asked Holden for two things. The first was a command with open orders to cross the border and hunt down the bandits who had killed Harvey and his men; the second was that his commanding officer accept his resignation effective from his return out of Mexico.

  Holden chuckled and refused both requests. He seemed to enjoy curbing Onslow. It was though he sought to emphasize his superiority over the more experienced officer.

  Onslow set a rein on his temper and talked for better than one hour. Holden still chuckled and shook his head. Onslow lost his temper and punched his commanding officer in the mouth.

  It was a hard blow, though poorly placed because Onslow had to lean over Holden’s desk to deliver it. Even so it smashed Holden’s upper lip back against his teeth and broke two teeth from his jaw.

  He spat blood and stared at Onslow.

  ‘You should never have done that,’ he said. He said it very clearly, despite the blood dribbling over his chin. ‘You just lost nineteen years’ work.’ He grinned and drew a hand slowly across his mouth, as though savoring the feel of the blood and some kind of triumph. ‘That means ten years in the stockade. How old will you be then, Onslow? Tipping forty? With a dishonorable discharge? You better say goodbye to your mex wife, Onslow. You won’t be seeing her in a long time.’

  Onslow stood up on the far side of the desk. He wasn’t sure himself of what he’d done: it had just happened. Happened after long months of needling and subtle insults. Months in which Holden had insulted Mexicans and anyone who chose to accept them as people.

  He stepped around the desk.

  He grabbed the front of Holden’s shirt in his left hand and dragged the colonel halfway clear of the swing-back chair. Then be pounded his right fist down against the bleeding lips. He felt blood on his knuckles. Swung his arm back. Forwards again. Holden’s mouth got bloody and swollen. Onslow hit again. Holden’s nose pulped and spread a sticky mixture of blood and mucus over his shirt and Onslow’s hand. His eyes stayed wide open, staring up with a fierce, fixed intensity that somehow seemed victorious and made Onslow feel even more angry.

  He hit Holden again. First across the bridge of his nose, then hard in both eyes. He did it with the studied ferocity of a man used to fighting with his hands. His blows broke Holden’s nose in three places. They watered his eyes and shut the lids in puffing welters of swollen flesh. Then he hiked the colonel up on his feet and backhanded him five times. Holden’s cheeks got red, then a bluish-yellow that was sprinkled with blood and a scattering of shattered teeth.

  When he let go of the shirt Holden collapsed like a fallen doll. He hit his chair and slammed it back across the room. He folded onto the floor and dripped blood over the boards.

  Onslow looked at his right hand. The knuckles were cut and bleeding where they had smashed Holden’s face. Blood dripped slowly onto the papers spread over the desk. Onslow took a deep breath and wiped his hand against his shirt. For a moment he wondered what he had done; regretted it. Then he shrugged and turned away. He straightened his uniform and went over to the door.

  The night air was clean and cool. Jonas Strong was waiting for him.

  ‘What happened?’ asked the big Negro. ‘You look kinda troubled.’

  Onslow nodded, sucking on his bleeding hand.

  ‘I need a horse,’ he said. ‘I just quit the Army. Now I need a horse and a start. I’ll go back to Mexico.’

  ‘I figured that,’ said Strong. ‘I figured somethin’ was up. I’ll go get us two horses.’

  ‘Two?’ asked Onslow. ‘Why two?’

  ‘Hell!’ Strong’s voice was a rasping chuckle. ‘You go on losin’ your temper that way an’ you’ll need someone to look after you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Onslow. ‘Make it two.’

  They packed what little personal clothing they owned and rode out through the gates of Fort Brigg. No questions were asked and by dawn they were over the border and riding for Aqua Prieta. They halted by a stream just long enough to rest the horses and brew some coffee, and while the pot was boiling up they changed out of their Army uniforms.

  Onslow changed into the only other clothes he had brought with him: the white shirt and the suit he had worn at his wedding. He kept his gunbelt and the .45 Colt Army model issued when he got his commission. There was a Mauser 7.63mm automatic pistol inside his saddlebags. It was a personal gun, bought with his own money for the sheer, devastating firepower of the fast-action weapon. It nestled in a wooden holster that doubled as both rifle-stock and shoulder-holster, along with five spare clips of ammunition and about seventy spare loads.

  Jonas Strong kept his government-issue shirt simply because he owned no other. He swapped his olive-drab trousers for a pair of faded denims and picked the insignia from his hat. Then he checked the Colt automatic on his belt and reached inside his saddlebags to pull out his own favorite weapon. This was a Browning automatic shotgun, the pump-action variety. The barrel was sawed down to around eighteen inches, so that the muzzle came close to meeting the underhung knurl of the pump-action. Over the barrel and the stock, clasps had been welded on to take a strap. The strap looped over Strong’s shoulder, so that the gun would hang under his right arm, loose against his hip, and swing easily into play when he tapped the butt with his right elbow.

  They tossed their uniforms onto the fire and rode away.

  They both knew they had made a decision that would change their lives, that would bar them from ever returning safely to their homeland.

  They didn’t regret it. Not that much: it just felt like something they had to do.

  They got down to Aqua Prieta around noon, skirting the town and crossed the invisible line of Hoyos territory in the early afternoon. Three vaqueros picked them up just over the line. They all carried rifles. And all three guns were cocked and aimed as the cowboys rode in.

  One hung back, sighting his rifle as the others approached Onslow and Strong.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Onslow. ‘Don’t you know me?’

  The lead rider grinned and shrugged. He settled the hammer of his rifle and slid the long gun into the polished sheath belted to his saddle.

  ‘Lo siento,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, señor Onslow, but I have to be very sure these days who is coming onto the ranch.’

  ‘Why?’ said Onslow. ‘I thought Huerta was controlling things.’

  The vaquero laughed and spat. ‘Huerta? El Matador? He controls the city, that is all. Up here we fight Pancho Villa and his banditos. Huerta is too drunk to worry about us.’ He remembered himself and smiled an apology. ‘But el jefe will explain all that, señor. I say only what comes to my heart. I hope you will forgive me.’

  ‘Es nada,’ said Onslow. ‘It is forgotten already. Pass us through and go back to your work. If anyone should come asking about us, tell them to check with the hacienda. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ The vaquero touched a finger to his hat’s brim and grinned at the two Americans. ‘I have seen nothing, nor have my friends.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Onslow. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘De nada.’ The man wheeled his pony around and took off for the hills. Onslow watched him go.

  Then he heeled his own mount to a canter and headed down the trail for the Hoyos ranch.

  Linda was waiting there. Linda and home. At least he hoped so. What the vaquero had said disturbed him. He hoped all was well with the Hoyos family.

  That was all he had left. Apart from his guns and his horse and Jonas Strong.

  He hoped it was all well and safe and happy. Mostly because he didn’t know what he would do if it wasn’t.

  It was a thought he didn’t enjoy, not if it went wrong now.

  Chapter Two

  RAMON HOYOS WAS drinking coffee in the central room of the main hacienda. He was changed out of his customary suit into work pants and a linen shirt. There was a gunbelt hung round his spreading waist with a .41 caliber Colt Thunderer in the tooled leather holster. His eyes were shaded with heavy bags and his gray hair looked lank and untidy. He looked up as Onslow came in.

  ‘Cade!’ He smiled and waved the two men to sit down. The smile looked tired and old and worried. ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘Hear what?’ Onslow poured coffee. ‘What’s happened?’

  Hoyos looked confused. ‘You mean you haven’t come because of the raids?’

  Onslow shook his head. Hoyos asked, ‘Why?’

  Onslow explained. Hoyos sighed and shrugged.

  ‘They say trouble comes three times,’ he grunted. ‘I wonder what will be next.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Onslow was confused. ‘Where’s Linda?’

  ‘I sent her south,’ murmured Hoyos. ‘It seemed safer.’ Onslow felt an unfamiliar coolness settle over his mind. It was a stillness akin to that strange, ominous calm that settles over the prairie before a bad storm hits, when sounds get very clear and loud, each one like a death knell. He had felt the same only once before, when he saw the smoke rising from his parents’ ranch and guessed what he would find.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  Across the table Jonas Strong stared hard at his coffee cup, his wide, black face suddenly still and serious. Hoyos sighed again and began to speak.

  ‘The Villistas attacked us,’ he said. ‘They came in from the north and began to run off the main herd. There was a fight. Two of my men were killed before driving them away. They swung round to attack the North House, where Linda was. I got up there in time to fight them off, but they burned the house and promised to come back. I sent Linda down to the ranch at Verrano. The people there are trustworthy: they won’t let the rebels take her .’

  ‘Christ!’ Onslow put his cup down hard enough to splatter coffee over the table. ‘I thought Huerta had things under control. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’

  Hoyos nodded. ‘Yes. I thought he had. I thought he was strong enough to control things. I thought he’d settle with Villa and the others. I thought he’d establish order again, set up the dictatorship and restore sensible government.’

  ‘I heard that story before.’ Strong said it quietly, with a cynical smile. ‘Folks mostly say it when they’re hoping instead of doing.’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Onslow, worried about his wife. Then: ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’

  Strong shrugged. Hoyos looked haggard.

  Onslow thought for a moment. Then he said: ‘They were most likely the same bunch as jumped Harvey. That means they got gold and cows to sell. They took seven hundred head out of the States. How many they get from you?’

  ‘Two, three hundred,’ said Hoyos. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘So they might be herding close on a thousand.’ Onslow’s mind worked fast, assessing logistics, tactics. ‘That means they have to move slow. They’ll eat some, but sell most. They’ll need guns, ammunition. Where’d they go to buy that kind of stuff? Where’d they sell the cattle?’

  ‘America?’ suggested Hoyos.

  Onslow shook his head. ‘No. The border’s closed down. The patrols would spot them. They’ll know that, too. It has to be inside Mexico.’

  ‘It would be difficult in Sonora or Chihuahua,’ said Hoyos. ‘They’d have to take them north to make any kind of money. They might try crossing over to Coahuila, but that would take time and the governor there doesn’t side with Villa. They’d most likely take the herd south to the coast. Head for Guaymas and look to ship the cows out to California.’

  ‘Verrano’s midway ain’t it?’ said Strong. ‘About halfway between here and Guaymas.’

  Hoyos nodded and Onslow cursed.

  ‘What was Linda riding?’ he asked. ‘Who went with her?’

  ‘A buckboard,’ said Hoyos. ‘I sent ten men with her.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Onslow, standing up. ‘We’ll need fresh horses and food. Give us some kind of letter so that we can get new mounts. Maybe we can link up.’

  Hoyos went over to the ornate bureau tucked in against the eastern wall. He pulled a sheet of paper loose from one of the pigeon-holes and scribbled a brief message. He blotted the ink and struck a spark from the flint and steel lighter set alongside the headed paper. He heated a stick of wax and dripped the end over his signature. Then he pressed his signet ring into the cooling wax, blew on the stuff and folded the paper. He sealed the fold with a second blob of wax and indented that with his ring.

  ‘That will get you horses or guns, or whatever you need,’ he said, ‘anywhere on my lands. Most people who know me will accept it, too.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Onslow. ‘I appreciate that.’

  Hoyos nodded and said, ‘She’s my daughter.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Onslow’s face clouded over. ‘And she’s my wife.’

  They rode out fresh-mounted on the finest horses Ramon Hoyos could give them. Onslow’s was a stallion, black and high, a mixture of Arab and Morgan with speed and staying power bred into its proud chest and high-stepping legs. Strong’s mount was a gelding, a pale dun color with a white blaze running down between its eyes and the short, narrow head that told of Arab breeding.

  They sat the high-cantled saddles favored by the vaqueros with bags packed full of food and changes of clothing. They also carried a Winchester rifle apiece, the model of 1895 with the box magazine and a twenty-five inch barrel, chambered to hold the .30 Government-model shells, of which Ramon Hoyos had provided some hundred rounds apiece.

  They rode and spoke little, heading fast for Verrano. Onslow was worried for his wife; Strong was worried for his friend.

  They made it in three days.

  The town was small and dusty, filled up with crumbling adobe buildings that looked ready to tumble down into powder and blow away with the next wind off the coast. There were only two structures standing higher than a single story; one was the gaming house, the second the hotel. They were both fronted with yellow-white adobe against which the peeling paint of their signs looked drab and old and faded. The rest of the thoroughfare was filled up with saloons and stores and eating houses. There was a bank and a stable, a gunsmith’s and a stage office. The town looked old and tired, defeated by the sun and the dust. It smelled of dryness and urine and tequila and deadness.