Onslow led the way inside the hotel. It was pretty much like the exterior: the carpet had been thick and red once, now it was sun-bleached and dusty, worn thin and patched in places; there were a few uncomfortable-looking chairs scattered round, threadbare and stained with ash; beside a desk stood a broad-leafed plant that looked to be fighting for its life against the dry air and the stale cigarette smoke. The clerk behind the desk looked only slightly better off than the plant.

  Onslow asked him if señora Onslow had booked in, then changed it to señorita Hoyos. The clerk laughed, looking surprised.

  ‘Why should she?’ he continued. ‘She’ll stay on the ranch if she’s come down here.’

  Onslow got directions and went back to the horses.

  The hacienda lay five miles south of the town. It was smaller than the main Hoyos ranch, but still luxuriously well-ordered in comparison to Verrano itself. Two hands armed with carbines stood guard on the main gate. Onslow explained who he was and rode up to the buildings.

  He was scarcely out of the saddle when Linda flew into his arms. He held her for a long time and when they finally broke apart she was flushed and laughing, her eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘Cade, Jonas.’ She placed a hand on the Negro’s muscular arm. ‘I never thought to see you again so soon. Come inside. Have you eaten? I’ll have something prepared.’

  They went inside and cleaned up before settling down to eat. Over the meal, Onslow explained what had happened. At first Linda was worried, then she brightened up.

  ‘That means you can’t go back, doesn’t it? You’ll be wanted by the Army.’ Onslow nodded. ‘So you’ll have to stay in Mexico. My father can protect you here. You can both stay and help him run his businesses.’ She laughed again, smiling at them both. ‘It’s marvelous. Now we can have our honeymoon like we planned. We can be together all the time. I’ll have rooms prepared. Jonas can have one of the guest rooms, and we shall sleep in the master bedroom.’

  She broke off, blushing like a child that realizes it has said something not quite correct.

  Strong looked worried and Onslow felt his initial excitement fade. Both men realized, perhaps for the first time, the full meaning of what they had done. Linda was right: they would be wanted men in America. If they were caught north of the border, it would mean a court martial followed by long years in the Army stockade at Leavenworth.

  Strong was the first to speak.

  ‘Hell,’ he said softly, his deep voice rolling around his barrel chest like a cat’s purr, ‘I was gettin’ bored with soldiering anyway. It’ll be kinda nice to settle down an’ make a home somewhere permanent.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Onslow. ‘I guess.’

  Linda looked worried again, so he pushed the doubts out of his mind and smiled at her.

  ‘It’ll be what we planned.’

  For the remainder of the afternoon they inspected the ranch, the tour conducted by Linda. There had been no sign of either bandits or revolutionaries in the area, but Onslow was still worried that the Villistas would come through Verrano. And with seven thousand head of cattle fattened up on the early grass, the Hoyos ranch would offer them a prime target. Especially if they were the bunch that had killed Harvey. They’d be feeling good, ready to take on anyone.

  In the evening he spoke with the jefe.

  Alonso Torreon was a straightforward man. At forty-two years he was toughened by a lifetime of herding cattle. He was confident of his own abilities and poorly disposed to take advice from yanquis.

  ‘If they come we shall fight them,’ he said, simply.

  ‘How many men you got?’ asked Onslow.

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘There’s around forty, maybe more, in the gang.’

  Torreon shrugged. He had run the Verrano ranch for twelve years. Before that he was a vaquero. He had fought Yaquis before, and bandits.

  ‘They got a machine-gun,’ said Onslow.

  Torreon shrugged again. He had heard of machine-guns the same way he had heard of motor cars and even the new-fangled flying machines. He was used to fighting with a horse and a rifle, a pistol for close work, and a knife when all else failed. These modern things concerned him as little as the revolution. He was Ramon Hoyos’ man. He would defend the rancho del oeste as best he could. With his life, in the last resort.

  ‘Will the town help?’ asked Onslow.

  Torreon spat. ‘Those fat-bellied citizens? No. The sound of a gun sends them into hiding under their beds.’

  Onslow looked at Strong. They knew one another well enough that few words were necessary between them. They had been together for close on ten years, ever since Onslow—then a captain—had promoted Strong out of the ranks and engineered his posting to each new fort Onslow himself was assigned to. Twice Onslow had defended Strong in military tribunals, when the big Negro was accused of fighting with fellow non-coms. Both times the evidence had been rigged and the accusers doubly bitter. First because Strong was black; second, because he had beaten them to a pulp. Both times, Onslow had got him off. There was understanding between them.

  ‘Sonora?’ asked Strong.

  ‘Seems safer,’ nodded Onslow.

  Torreon spoke no English and waited for them to finish. He fidgeted with his sombrero, anxious to get away and eat his dinner. Linda looked worried again and when Onslow turned to the jefe and thanked him, she added her own gratitude and dismissed him.

  When the door closed behind him, she turned to Onslow and asked what he was planning.

  ‘To get you some place safe,’ he said, thinking about it. ‘Thirty men won’t be able to defend this place if the rebels attack. You’ll be better off with your father. We’ll take you back to Sonora.’

  ‘And you?’ Linda asked. ‘You make it sound as though you’re leaving again.’

  For a moment Onslow was torn between two duties. His first—one that he recognized with total clarity—was to see Linda safe. The second was to punish the men responsible for killing Jonathan Harvey. How he might reconcile the two aims was, at the moment, unclear.

  Again Strong sensed his thoughts and offered a solution.

  ‘Best way to gear up for a war is to lay in supplies.’ The big Negro said it casually, as though commenting on a means of getting rid of ants or mice. ‘Be an idea for señor Hoyos to stock up on guns, ammunition too. Best place to find guns is in America. Aqua Prieta’s right on the border.’

  Onslow grinned. ‘And we know as much about guns as anyone.’

  Strong spread his hands wide and shrugged.

  ‘We’ll leave in the morning.’ One of the qualities that had helped Onslow’s advancement up from the ranks was the ability to listen to sound advice. Another was the ability to act on it. Fast. ‘The men who came with you can stay here in case the rebels come through. We can travel faster alone, anyway; and there’s less chance of being spotted.’

  Linda nodded without speaking: a dutiful wife.

  That night they shared a bed for the second time in three weeks of marriage.

  Between Verrano and Aqua Prieta the country was flat and dusty. The long spine of the Sierra Madre and the rocky line of Baja California made a kind of catchment for the warm winds blowing in off the Pacific. There was water there, and the land had a still, sleepy feel to it, a lazy indifference to the riders and their troubles.

  Onslow and Strong rode the horses Hoyos had given them, rested now and eager to run. Linda rode a dun mare, a mixture of Arab and stock pony, that she handled with practiced ease. She wore a divided leather skirt and sat the pony astride. There was a short-barreled Colt Lightning holstered on the saddle ahead of her right knee.

  Around noon they saw the dust.

  It showed like a cloud of smoke some five miles in front of them. It swirled up into the still air and spread out in a great cloud that hung low and pall-like above the sun-washed ground, swirling out and up at the edges and the higher extremities. It was the kind of dust a large herd of cows makes when it’s moving fast over dry country.

  Onslow steered them off the trail and led the way through the broken country flanking the road to Verrano.

  An hour or so later they saw the herd, and Onslow halted. They stood their mounts behind a cane break and stayed quiet.

  The silence was broken only by the sharp snapping of the Mauser’s safety catch and the dull click of the hammers on Strong’s shotgun. Those and the noise of the cows.

  The bellowing got closer, a slow, steady booming that spoke of cattle driven fast and hard, protesting at the unusual movement. After a while the dull thunder of the cows got punctuated with the shouts of the men riding herd. Then by the clanking of bridles and the sound of heavy, Mexican spurs jangling in metal-faced, bucket stirrups. The dust got thicker and darker. A man in a wide sombrero and a waist-length jacket all covered with fancy silver stitching showed faint through the rolling clouds. He rode past their position without spotting them. He carried a rifle canted across his saddle. Then the herd showed like a great rolling sea of dusty hides. Outriders held in the flanks, men in white cotton trousers and dirty white blouses hung round with bandoliers. All carried revolvers on their belts and rifles or carbines in their hands.

  The dust spread out and filled the air on both sides of the road.

  The cattle went past at a trot. Onslow draped a bandanna around his mouth and nose, motioning for Linda to do the same. The herd went on.

  For close on two hours they waited inside the cane, watching the cows go by. Most of the cows wore brands. They were either the three triangles of the Tres Picos ranch or the flamboyant, curling H of the Hoyos holdings. In between were the wavy V of a ranch Onslow knew in Arizona and the lazy W belonging to Bill Weaver, whose spread was just north of the border.

  Behind the herd came a string of wagons, five in all. Two were filled up with women and children; the other three were loaded with guns and clothing and furniture.

  The women on the wagons, like the men riding herd on the cattle, were laughing. Two of the wagons were new, made of plain pinewood. There were dark brown stains on the pale sides.

  Behind the wagons came a remuda, controlled by three men.

  The horses were brown and black and dun, sprinkled through with some piebalds and dapple grays. They were all big-chested and strong-legged. The kind of horse the US Army rode.

  They all wore US Army brands.

  It was close on three hours before the entire cavalcade was passed by and the dust was beginning to settle, but by then Onslow had made up his mind.

  ‘Take Linda on,’ he told Strong. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  Strong nodded, but Linda argued.

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t be crazy.’

  ‘They killed Harvey.’ Onslow’s voice was still muffled by the bandanna. ‘I owe them. I want to know who killed him.’

  He turned his horse around and walked it onto the road. Strong grabbed hold of Linda’s bridle and took her off at a canter before she had time to argue.

  Onslow rode off into the dust.

  The remuda was separated from the wagons by about a quarter mile. One bandit held in the western flank to prevent the horses straying into the cane, the other two rode tail.

  Onslow caught up with them inside one hour. He thought that would be sufficient time to allow Linda and Strong to get safe away. He hoped he could do the same.

  ‘Hola!’ He shouted as he caught up with the rearmost horsemen. ‘Where are you going?’

  The bandits wore better outfits than the men herding the cows. One was dressed in a suit of black cloth with conchos running down the legs of his pants and silver stitching on his jacket. The other wore a gray jacket with decorations on the pockets and a pair of dark blue trousers that flared over tooled boots hung with big silver spurs. Both men carried rifles and pistols.

  The rifles came up and levelled on Onslow as he rode closer.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The speaker was a little older than his companion, though still not out of his twenties.

  Onslow hung his reins over the saddle horn and lifted his arms wide.

  ‘American,’ he said. ‘I heard there was a war going on down here and I thought I’d join in.’

  ‘Mercenario,’ said the younger Mexican. ‘A vulture.’

  Onslow grinned. ‘Can’t you use guns?’

  ‘Maybe.’ The older man looked suspicious. ‘How’d you find us?’

  ‘Heard there was a big raid up north,’ said Onslow. ‘Heard that Pancho Villa ran off close on a thousand head from the Tres Picos and the Hoyos ranches. When I saw the brands, I figured that was you.’

  ‘Not Villa,’ snarled the younger man. ‘It was Juan Batista.’

  ‘Sorry,’ grinned Onslow, ‘I guess they got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t you killed that Yankee patrol.’

  Both men laughed, but it was the older that spoke now.

  ‘It was us! We took the gringos into a trap and wiped them out. Like we do any gringo who tries to chase us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Onslow. ‘But not me.’

  He turned his horse as he spoke and dropped over the left flank. His move took the Mexicans by surprise and he had the Colt automatic in his hand as he touched ground. The safety catch holding the slider steady was thumbed down and the secondary mechanism in the butt was pressed tight as he came out from behind the black horse. His thumb took the hammer back with trained precision as he swung round and sighted and fired.

  The Mexicans’ rifles blew shots over the black horse. Onslow’s first bullet hit the older Mexican in the chest. It tore through the loose cloth of his shirt and broke his clavicle. It ricocheted upwards as he pitched backwards off his horse and came out through the back of his neck. The Mexican fell down onto the ground and began to scream. He dropped his rifle and pressed both hands to the wound that was bleeding his life away.

  Onslow swung and fired again as he was falling.

  He caught the younger man between the eyes. He saw the face explode inwards like a soft melon struck by a hammer. The man’s head jerked back, splattering blood and bone over his horse. The bullet ripped through the cranium, the lower part of the brain, and die segments of bone connecting skull and body together. Where the .45 caliber slug came out there was a great, spurting welter of gray-stained crimson.

  The man tilted back in his saddle. Blood dripped sticky from where his eyes and nose and forehead had been. It dripped over his chest and his hands. It dripped onto his saddle and his horse. It was thick and cloying, like the pulp from an overripe tomato.

  The horse panicked and took off into the breaks with the body still on the saddle.

  Onslow dragged his own mount back under control and looked for the third rider.

  He saw the man coming in fast from the breaks with a rifle in his hands and the reins looped over the saddle horn. He was coming guerrilla style: steering the horse with his knees to leave both hands free to work the gun. Onslow slammed the Colt into the holster and hauled the long-barreled Mauser clear of his shoulder. He snapped the safety catch clear and thumbed back the hammer. He held the rounded wood butt in his right hand and settled his left over the down-facing magazine in front of the trigger guard. The Mauser had a range close on a thousand yards. Onslow let the bandit come into four or five hundred feet before he squeezed the trigger.

  His shot went through the rider’s chest. It spilled him loose of his stirrups with blood spurting over his hands and face. Onslow fired again as he was falling. The second bullet entered through the lower part of the ribcage and exited through the upper part of the spine. The man flipped over the haunches of his horse and rolled stickily across the trail.

  His body was still falling through the cane as Onslow mounted up and rode away. He felt a certain kind of satisfaction, as if he’d paid off a debt and settled a score for his friend, Jonathan Harvey.

  He rode fast, anxious to get clear of the Villistas and catch up with Linda and Strong. He shifted off the trail onto the broken ground because he didn’t want to leave a clear line of pursuit. So he spent an hour meandering through streams and cane before he got back onto the main roadway and galloped hard after his companions.

  What he didn’t know was that Paco Hernandos was still alive.

  Paco was the first bandit Onslow had shot. He was dying, from shock and loss of blood, but he managed to keep his hands pressed around the wound in his neck long enough to tell Juan Batista that he had been killed by a yanqui who asked about the Hoyos raid and the others.

  And that was enough for Batista to decide that Ramon Hoyos was hiring American mercenaries to fight for him.

  Juan Batista resented Americans taking part in the revolution. He liked even less the idea of Mexicans seeking out-country help. He decided to pay Hoyos back. Once the cattle were delivered and he had the money to buy sufficient guns to fight Hoyos.

  Onslow caught up with Linda and Strong about four hours after his one-sided fight.

  They were camped out alongside a stream and Onslow was confident enough of having shaken any pursuit to settle down and enjoy being with his wife.

  Strong pitched his bedroll far enough away to avoid embarrassment.

  Onslow and Linda made love.

  ‘It’s not much of a honeymoon,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Linda’s voice was soft and warm. ‘It doesn’t matter so long as you’re with me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ murmured Onslow, turning to face her. ‘I hope not.’

  Chapter Three

  WHEN THEY GOT back to the main Hoyos ranch they found a whole bag of news waiting for them.

  Onslow and Strong were posted missing from the US Army, with posters out and a charge of assault and desertion on them both. Venustiano Carranza, the governor of Coahuila, was raising an army to oppose General Huerta. Bandits had attacked the ranch twice more. The border was shut down tighter than ever, with American patrols pushing into Mexico after Villistas raiding US ranches. There was talk of war; between Carranza and Huerta; between Mexico and America; between Carranza and Villa.