He rubbed a hand against his eyes and stood up. There was a pitcher and a basin on the far side of the room. His legs trembled as he went over to the chipped porcelain bowl and filled it with tepid water. He sluiced his face, wiped it dry with his shirtsleeve, and went back to the bed.

  The dream nearly always ended like this.

  His mouth tasted dry and furred; his eyes were not yet focused, but his hands knew what to do from long experience. They picked up the hypodermic syringe and cleaned the needle with infinite care. There were three glass ampoules set out on a square of cloth. Jamie Durham broke the seal on one of them and spiked the needle through the stopper, drawing up the colorless liquid into the hypodermic. He stared at the tip, depressing the plunger just enough to be sure there was no air trapped in the syringe. Then he rolled back his left sleeve and pinched the underside of his forearm until a vein stood up. He took a deep breath and waited for the trembling to ease. When his hand was steady, he punctured the vein and shoved the plunger slowly down, driving the colorless fluid into his bloodstream. He cleaned the hypodermic and set it back on the crate. His eyes began to glaze again as he settled back on the bed.

  After a while his breathing got even again and his eyes closed. His mouth slackened, almost smiling as he waited for the happiness to come back.

  Jamie Durham was a morphine addict.

  He had been an addict for three years now, ever since he came out of hospital with half his face torn up and all his dreams gone.

  It had happened in 1910. Mexican bandits had crossed over the Rio Grande to hit the ranches on the Texas side. A detail of cavalry had gone out from Fort Quitman to chase the gang and a squad of Army Engineers had been sent off along with a detachment of infantry to block the pass the commanding officer thought the Mexicans would use to get back home. Jamie had been a corporal then, one of the youngest and one of the best. He had helped mine the pass, planning to seal it up with the bandits inside. They had taken a different route, however, and the engineers had to defuse and gather up the explosives. Jamie had lifted the fuse mechanism clear of one mine and was carrying it back to the supply wagon when the device went off. He remembered the pain and the blackness that suddenly engulfed him.

  The next thing he remembered was waking up in hospital with bandages over his face and tubes attached to his body. He was there for seven months, waiting for his face to heal, doped up with morphine against the pain.

  He had vomited when they brought him a mirror and he saw what he looked like.

  The right side of his face was normal, and from that profile he looked a handsome, fair-haired young man. The left side, from the eye socket to the under hang of his jaw, was a scarred, purple-stained jumble of puckered, dead flesh. His eye was tugged out of line where the surgeons had sewn the skin back together. The stitch marks were still visible around his drooping eye and the twisted grin of his seared mouth. His cheek was hollowed out where the flesh had been torn apart and stitched back together over the hole. And he needed morphine.

  He discovered that three days after discharging himself. He had asked for a discharge from the Army and been told it would come through, meanwhile he should take it easy, recuperate while the papers were filled out. He was still in shock when his stomach began to ache and he found himself scratching itches that started up all over his body. He began to vomit and pain wracked his belly like twisting knives. He fought it with whisky, but that didn’t seem to do any good. When he reported back to the hospital, a doctor checked him over and gave him morphine. The pain went away. Jamie felt relaxed, even happy. Four days later the pain came back and he got more of the drug.

  By the time the Army let him go he knew he was addicted.

  After that he drifted around the South-west looking for money to feed his habit. He was expert with almost any kind of explosives and found work in the mines and the oil fields. His addiction, and the savage temper that went with it, got him fired off of too many jobs, but he mostly found another, and made enough as a dynamiter to tide him over the workless patches.

  Until he lost his temper on the rig in Chihuahua. The straw-boss had bawled him out for taking time off to fix. Jamie had exploded like one of his own blasting charges. He cut the straw boss on the face and chest with the switchblade he kept in his belt and took off before anyone had a chance to stop him. He had two hundred dollars in his pockets and that was mostly gone. His supply of morphine would last—if measured carefully—for maybe three more days. It was time to find more work.

  Onslow and Strong got into El Paso while Jamie Durham was still hazed out inside his private dream world.

  Onslow wore a thick, black moustache across his upper lip and the same black suit he had worn for his wedding. Strong was dressed in faded denims and blue linen shirt. He wore his campaign hat with the crown flattened out and the badge removed. Both men carried their Army-issue Colt automatics. Onslow’s was hidden under his jacket, Strong had a serape draped over his.

  They were looking for a man called Wyatt who said he had two Hawkins machine-guns for sale. They found him in a cantina on the Mexican side of town.

  Wyatt was plump and prosperous. He wore a three-piece suit with a gold watch-chain hung across the swell of his stomach and a bowler hat jammed down over his thinning, gingery hair.

  He wanted a thousand dollars apiece for the guns and five crates of ammunition. Onslow beat him down to a total price of fifteen hundred with the promise of more deals to come. Then he asked about Jamie Durham.

  ‘Why’d you want him?’ asked Wyatt. ‘That kid’s bad news.’

  ‘My business,’ said Onslow. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Got a shack near the river, I think.’ Wyatt shrugged. ‘He uses a saloon called the Wild Dog to buy his dope. You’ll leave him alone if you want my advice.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Onslow. ‘Just your guns.’

  The Wild Dog was a typical border saloon. It was dirty and thick with smoke and the smell of cheap booze. At noon it was filled with drinkers and gamblers. Four poker games were going on and the urn on the Keno Goose was busy spilling pellets. There was a slot machine raking in dimes and cents without paying any rewards and a crowd was gathered round the Wheel of Fortune.

  Onslow bought whisky and asked for Jamie Durham.

  ‘Ain’t seen him in three days,’ answered the barkeep. ‘I guess he’ll be home with a fix.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ Onslow was beginning to feel worried. ‘What’s he on?’

  The barkeep shrugged. ‘You name it, he’s tried it. Morphine mostly, but he’ll take heroin or mescaline if he can’t buy his usual fix. He only comes in here when he needs the stuff.’ He sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Goddam addict.’

  ‘You feel that way about him,’ said Onslow, ‘you oughta bar the dealers.’

  ‘Christ!’ grinned the barkeep. ‘You want me to lose my customers?’

  Onslow looked at the man the way he’d stare at a Gila monster.

  ‘Where’s he live?’ he asked, curbing his temper.

  The barkeep gave directions. Onslow and Strong finished their drinks and left. They went down the side street to the spill of shacks and adobes forming the poor quarter of El Paso. The alleys were sand, thick with garbage and stray dogs picking over the scraps. There was a heavy smell of frying food mingled in with even less pleasant odors. Jamie Durham’s shack was the last one in a double row that stretched out to the edge of a mudbank. It was small, the walls made of dirty adobe, the roof of three sheets of corrugated iron. The door was open.

  Inside, it was warm and dark. There was a stove built up against the north wall, two windows covered with mouse-eaten cane blinds, bare planks on the floor and a bed over against the south wall.

  Jamie Durham was on the bed.

  Onslow paused inside the door, pausing while his nose got used to the smell.

  ‘Jamie Durham?’ he said. ‘You awake?’

  Jamie rolled over. He thought he heard voices, but they didn’t fit the dream. Light hit his face and he screwed his eyelids tight against the glare.

  The voice came back, speaking his name. He opened his eyes: two men were watching him. He grunted and let one arm trail down the side of the bed. When he rolled back he had a Colt Thunderer in his hand and his mind was back in gear. He swung sideways, pointing the gun at the two men in the doorway.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ His voice was thick and furry. ‘State yore business an’ get the goddamn hell outta here.’

  Onslow watched the revolver. The muzzle was steady, but the eyes of the man behind it were blurred. ‘Listen,’ he said slowly; clearly. ‘I got a deal.’

  At the same time he removed his hat and held it by the brim low against his left hip. Then he flipped it forwards, spinning it straight at the weird face in front of him. Durham’s gun swung instinctively over to cover the spinning hat. In the same instant, Onslow stepped forwards and slapped the barrel aside. The Colt went off, sharding plaster from the wall alongside the bed. Onslow wrapped his left hand tight over the gun, shoving it round and up as he slapped Durham twice across the face.

  He dragged the Colt clear and tossed it to Strong. Jamie Durham fell back on the bed, fumbling at his belt for the switchblade he carried there.

  ‘Try that an’ I’ll kill you,’ said Onslow coldly. ‘I came to make you an offer. I don’t like bein’ shot at.’

  ‘So don’t come bustin’ in uninvited,’ mumbled Jamie. ‘What the hell you want?’

  ‘You still handle explosives?’

  ‘Yeah. Why you want to know?’

  ‘I need someone like you for a job in Mexico.’

  ‘I’m blacklisted. Ain’t you heard? There’s no one wants to work with me. You go find some other dynamiter for yore field.’

  ‘I’m not an oilman,’ said Onslow. ‘This is different work.’

  Durham sat up and shook his head. ‘What kind?’ he asked. Onslow explained.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five hundred now,’ said Onslow. ‘Five hundred more at the end of the month. After that, we talk again.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said Jamie, ‘but there’s one thing more.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘A man called McCloud. Yates McCloud. He’s gotta come with me.’

  ‘Why?’ said Onslow. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘He knows where to find it,’ said Durham, grinning. ‘He always does. Besides, he’s good with guns. Knows a lotta people. I don’t come without him.’

  ‘Shit!’ Onslow turned to look at Strong. ‘Do we need this?’

  Strong shrugged. ‘He’s good, Cade. Probably the best we’ll find. Maybe this McCloud’ll be useful, too.’

  Onslow sighed. ‘All right, we’ll take him. Where is he?’

  ‘In jail,’ said Durham. ‘The marshal locked him up three days ago.’

  Yates McCloud was bored and angry. He resented his confinement and found the food a poor comparison to what he was used to. He needed a bath and a shave, and he wanted his suit pressed and his boots polished. He was accustomed to living well and found the narrow walls of his cell claustrophobic and dirty.

  Yates McCloud was—he liked to think—a Southern gentleman. At least his family came from the South, could trace its ancestry back all the way to Washington and the War of Independence. He might be the black sheep of the family, but he still knew how to live; and if gambling and fixing deals were the only way to maintain his standards, then surely he had to engage in such activities for the sake of his upbringing.

  He was in prison for attacking a whore. So far as he was concerned, the stupid girl had brought it on herself. She shouldn’t have led him on like that, teasing him and taunting until he got so excited he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

  He’d never meant to hurt her. It was her own fault.

  ‘You want to bail him out?’ Marshal Jude Bayer stared at the man facing him across the desk. ‘He damn near beat the girl to death. If her neighbors hadn’t kicked the door in, she could be dead. The man’s a crazy.’

  ‘I still want to bail him,’ said Onslow. ‘How much?’

  ‘Jesus! There’s some folk never learn.’ Bayer opened his desk to check the figures posted on his prisoners. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Onslow.

  The marshal eased a wad of paper clear of the drawer and began to thumb through the sheets. Habit prompted him to glance at the wanted posters filed with the charge sheets and bail fees. One caught his attention. It was an Army dodger, announcing the desertion of a Major Cade Onslow and a Sergeant Jonas Strong. There were no pictures attached, but the descriptions were pretty detailed:

  Cade Onslow. 34 years old, but looks younger. Black hair. 190 pounds. Slim; well-built. Known to favor dark clothing. May be carrying stolen Army pistol; Colt .45 caliber. May be riding Army horse. Probably accompanied by Negro deserter.

  Jonas Strong. Age unknown. Negro. Last seen wearing Army campaign uniform. May be riding Army horse. May be carrying stolen Army pistol; .45 Colt automatic. Known to use pump-action shotgun. Clean shaven. Six feet tall; heavily muscled.

  Both men are dangerous.

  Bayer didn’t bother reading the rest. Instead he went on leafing through his papers with his left hand while he eased his right down inside the open drawer.

  He was pretty sure he had the two wanted men in front of him. They fitted the description, even with the moustache hiding part of the white man’s face. But before he said anything he wanted to get his hand on the gun he kept hidden in the drawer. It was a Luger P-08, the short-barrel model chambered to carry 9mm cartridges. Bayer kept one in the chamber out of habit, and knew that he could lift and fire before most men got a chance to clear their holster.

  He was lifting the gun when he realized how wrong he was.

  He had his hand around the butt and his finger snugged into the trigger ring as he looked up smiling. Into the cold, lonely-looking muzzle of the Colt automatic Onslow was pointing at his face. The hammer was all the way back and Onslow’s finger was tight on the trigger, his hand rock-steady. The smile went away from Bayer’s face.

  ‘Put it down,’ said Onslow. ‘Gently.’

  Bayer put it down.

  ‘Stand up,’ said Onslow.

  Bayer stood up.

  ‘Show me the keys.’

  Bayer pointed to the wall behind him.

  Onslow came round the desk and lifted the Colt from the marshal’s belt. He dropped it into the desk alongside the Luger and eased the drawer shut. He turned the key and tugged it loose. Then he went over to the stove and dropped the key through the grate.

  ‘Now open the cell,’ he said quietly.

  Bayer went back through the office with Onslow right behind him. He opened McCloud’s cell and stood back. Onslow stood across the corridor.

  ‘Yates McCloud?’ he asked.

  McCloud nodded. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Onslow. ‘Come on out. You’ve been paroled.’

  ‘You won’t make it,’ snarled Bayer. ‘There’ll be Army patrols an’ Texas Rangers lookin’ for you before you get ten miles from here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ grunted Onslow. ‘Get inside.’

  He pushed Bayer through the door and swung the bars shut. Then he turned the key in the lock and walked away. The marshal sat down on the bunk and began to swear. Onslow led McCloud to the outer office and told him to find his own guns. McCloud opened a cupboard and hunted out a shoulder rig and a .38 Colt Lightning. He checked the load and dropped the small pistol down into the holster, settling his jacket neatly over the bulge. Then he settled a short-brim gray Stetson on his head and grinned at Onslow.

  ‘I don’t know who you are,’ he said, ‘but I thank you.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Onslow. ‘We got someone to meet.’

  They quit the jail and went back into the side streets. Jamie Durham was waiting for them on the north side with a buckboard and three horses. The buggy was loaded up with two canvas-wrapped crates and three more of plain wood. The first two contained the Hawkins machine-guns, the others ammunition. They mounted up and rode out fast.

  Outside of town McCloud reined in and turned to Onslow. ‘I’m real grateful for what you done,’ he said, ‘but I still don’t know why.’

  ‘They got a proposition, Yates.’ Jamie Durham was grinning on both sides of his face. ‘It sounds real good. Adds up to a thousand dollars.’

  ‘For what?’ grunted McCloud.

  ‘Guns,’ said Onslow. ‘I hear you can find them. Me an’ Jonas know some dealers, but I reckon three of us would know more. Besides, Jamie wouldn’t come without you.’

  McCloud nodded and shrugged. ‘That’s real gratifying, but what’s in it for me? I’ve not seen any money yet.’

  ‘Christ! We bust you out of prison, mister,’ said Strong. ‘What more do you want?’

  McCloud glanced at the Negro, then turned back to face Onslow, ignoring the black man’s comment.

  ‘Well?’

  Onslow reached into his saddlebags and pulled a wad of notes free. He tossed them over to McCloud and said:

  ‘Does that settle it?’

  The Southerner grinned, counting off the bills.

  ‘Sure. I’ll come with you a spell.’

  Onslow nodded, wondering if he could trust the new man. He could find a certain, curious sympathy for Jamie Durham, but this arrogant Southerner was a different proposition.

  But he needed McCloud if he was to keep Durham with him; and he surely needed the Kid if he was to defend the Hoyos place. Defend Linda.

  And that was surely the most important thing: to protect his wife. To get the guns and the explosives as fast as possible and then get back to the spread.

  For that, he could overlook his instinctive mistrust of McCloud.

  They circled El Paso and went over the border to the southwest. Then they turned due west and crossed back into New Mexico. Two weeks later they were in Tombstone negotiating a deal for a third machine-gun, this time a Maxim, and three cases of grenades. After that they went up to Tucson where McCloud knew a man with rifles to sell. They bought three dozen bolt-action Mannlichers, nine hundred rounds of ammunition, and seventeen Colt automatics with two hundred rounds of ammunition.