After that they cut south down the Santa Cruz to Tubac. McCloud knew a man there, too, so they stopped long enough to collect a case of dynamite, two battery-operated detonators, loose fuses, and seven Army land mines.

  They crossed the border west of Fort Huachuca and swung east for Aqua Prieta and the Hoyos ranch.

  Most of the five thousand dollars was gone, but they had two wagons loaded high with weapons. It was, Onslow reckoned, enough to defend the Hoyos main ranch. McCloud was familiar with the automatic weapons and Durham knew the explosives the way a good preacher knew his Bible. In three weeks he and Strong could train the Hoyos vaqueros to some kind of disciplined fighting force. Then the guns and the explosives could be deployed in military order and render the hacienda impregnable.

  It was a sound plan.

  It was a pity it came too late.

  They got onto Hoyos land shortly after noon. It was still a day’s ride to the main ranch so when night fell they made camp and cooked up some food.

  Onslow was anxious to get back to Linda, but recognized the need to rest their horses for the final pull. Jonas Strong stayed calm and quiet, watching Durham and McCloud the way a benevolent schoolmaster watches recalcitrant pupils. Jamie was enjoying the excitement: he hadn’t used the morphine McCloud gave him in three days. That was some kind of record. McCloud was just glad to be out of jail.

  In the morning they set off again.

  By late afternoon they were close to the main ranch. Close enough to hear the sounds.

  At first they were dull and indistinct, like faraway thunder. As they rode in closer, the sounds got clearer. They took on the shape of individual thunderclaps. Became crisp; sharp.

  Onslow reined in, listening.

  ‘That sounds like cannon,’ he said. Nervously. ‘What d’you think?’

  Strong halted beside him.

  ‘Yeah. Twelve pounders.’ He listened to the crumping. ‘Three of them. From straight ahead.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ said Onslow and heeled his horse to a gallop. Strong shouted for McCloud and Durham to follow with the wagons and took off after Onslow.

  There was a ridge to the north of the Hoyos ranch that looked down across two miles of lush grazing land. It was too far distant to afford a clear view of the ranch, but the buildings could be seen as flat, indistinct shapes against the green.

  So could the puffs of smoke drifting clear of the three cannon spaced around the hacienda.

  The cannon were serviced by uniformed soldiers and when Onslow got closer he saw they wore the gray tunics and peaked kepis of Mexican federales.

  He took his horse down the slope at a gallop, riding directly for the ranch. A quarter mile out he was stopped by five soldiers who aimed rifles at his chest and shouted for him to halt.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He stared towards the guns as he said it, eyes blinking in amazement as he saw the shells land on the ranch house. ‘Who commands here?’

  ‘Colonel Montoya.’ A lieutenant came out from the cover of a plane tree. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Onslow,’ he said. ‘I’m married to Ramon Hoyos’ daughter.’

  ‘Oh.’ The lieutenant had Indian blood in his veins. His face was dark and very calm, with black eyes set either side of a thin nose. A neatly trimmed moustache bristled under his sharp nostrils. He looked bored. ‘That is unfortunate.’

  ‘Why?’ Onslow fought the desire to risk the levelled rifles and ride on. ‘What the goddam hell’s happening?’

  The lieutenant smiled and spread his hands in a dismissive gesture.

  ‘There are Villistas in the house. A bandit called Batista and his men. They attacked the hacienda two days ago. They refuse to come out, so the colonel ordered that we open fire.’

  ‘I want to speak to him,’ said Onslow. ‘Let me by.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ murmured the lieutenant, ‘but that is not possible.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it.’

  The voice came from behind Onslow, and to his left. It came from Jonas Strong. It came from over the muzzle of a Browning pump-action shotgun. The muzzle was aimed at the lieutenant’s chest.

  ‘Best thing,’ said the big Negro gently, ‘would be if you let señor Onslow through to talk with the colonel. That way, no one might get hurt.’

  The lieutenant stared at the Browning. It looked huge and menacing. Nearly as menacing as the man holding it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That might be best.’

  ‘Keep them here.’ Onslow spoke fast. ‘Give me a few minutes to ride clear then get back to the wagons. Hold them until we know what’s going on.’

  Strong nodded without moving his aim one inch. He watched Onslow ride away and waited until he was gone amongst the trees, then he smiled at the lieutenant.

  ‘Tell your men to drop their rifles.’ Five guns fell to the ground. ‘Now walk over to that tree and get down on your faces.’ They obeyed the order. ‘Hold hands.’ They held hands. ‘Stay there.’

  They stayed until the hoof beats were gone, and when they stood up again, both Strong and Onslow were out of sight.

  Strong rode back to the wagons and told McCloud and Durham what Onslow had said.

  Onslow rode straight for the hacienda.

  He found it ringed by troops and when he shouted to be let through the line a captain appeared and told him to dismount. It took ten minutes of arguing before the officer agreed to take Onslow to Colonel Montoya.

  The commander was a short man, his spreading belly held in check by a tight, tan uniform and a Sam Browne. His face was purpled with anger and there was sweat beading his thin moustache. Onslow recognized him from the wedding. He hadn’t taken to the man then; he liked him less now.

  ‘Come,’ barked Montoya. ‘I shall explain.’

  He led the way to a bivouac set out under the orange trees. There was a tent set up with a wide awning hung at the front. A table and four canvas chairs were set out in front, in the shade. The table was covered with a map, the surface stained by wine rings. There was a bottle, half empty, and three glasses on the map.

  ‘You must be worried,’ said Montoya.

  ‘Damn’ right,’ rasped Onslow. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Montoya smiled and sat down. He poured wine into two glasses and motioned for Onslow to seat himself. The American stayed standing. Montoya shrugged and sipped his wine.

  ‘It appears that Juan Batista feels a personal grudge against the Hoyos ranch,’ he said slowly. ‘He rode back from the coast to attack the place.’

  Onslow felt a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He began to wonder if the attack had anything to do with his killing of the three Villistas on the Verrano road.

  Montoya seemed to enjoy passing on bad news.

  ‘They attacked the hacienda with twenty men,’ he said. ‘Most of Ramon’s people were out working. They occupied the main building and forted up inside.’

  ‘Where’s Linda?’ asked Onslow. ‘Is she in there?’

  Montoya ignored him: ‘That was two days ago. Luckily I was chasing Batista at the time. Otherwise he might have got away.’

  ‘Where’s Linda?’ Onslow repeated. ‘Is she inside?’

  Montoya sipped more wine. He swilled the alcohol around his mouth before answering.

  ‘Yes. With her father and about five others. Batista is holding them captive.’

  ‘And you’re shelling the place?’ Onslow was surprised that the words came out clear. ‘You’ve opened fire when Linda and the others are still inside?’

  Montoya nodded. Then smiled.

  ‘What would you have me do, Mr. Onslow? Open my arms to rebels? Let them go by me unharmed?’

  ‘They’ll be killed,’ said Onslow.

  ‘They’ll die for a cause,’ said Montoya. ‘Now that General Huerta is in command we shall stamp out these damned revolutionaries. It’s what this country has needed since that squeaky-voiced fool Madero opened the way for Villa and the others.’

  ‘Let me go in,’ asked Onslow. ‘Let me try talking with them.’

  Montoya shook his head.

  ‘No. The rebels will come out with their arms over their heads, or they’ll be carried out. There’s no other way.’

  ‘But Linda and her father, they’ll get killed.’ Onslow recognized the futility of pleading even as he said it. ‘Give me the one chance to talk with them.’

  Montoya shook his head again.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Onslow. Drink some wine. There’s nothing you can do but wait.’

  ‘The hell there is!’

  Onslow drew fast. The Colt was in his hand while Montoya was still choking in surprise. But the man behind him was faster still. A rifle butt thudded across Onslow’s face and he dropped the Colt as stars exploded over his eyes. He went down onto the grass tasting blood inside his mouth. He reached for the fallen Colt. A dusty boot kicked it aside. A second dusty boot crushed his hand. Then something hard slammed against the back of his neck and he felt his teeth dig into the din as a great whirling blackness raced through his mind and the world went away to a place where there was only nothing.

  He came to with the salty taste of blood on his tongue and lips. His eyes seemed gummed up and his arms hurt. He opened his eyes and recognized night. It was a night punctuated by the flat thunder of the cannon.

  Crump! A flash of light. Then the secondary flash as the shell landed, followed close by a duller roar.

  Then again.

  And again.

  Neatly. In unison. Like guns fired on parade. On funeral parade.

  Crump! Flash. Thud! Repeated over and over, like kettle drums tapping out the requiem.

  He twisted, trying to stand straight. He could see the shells as they hit the buildings. They flared, throwing the broken walls into stark relief against the night. He could see where the outer walls surrounding the gardens were tumbled down, beyond them the shattered outlines of the main house. Flame sparkled bright along what was left of the roof.

  He thought he heard screaming.

  He became conscious of the pain in his wrists and chest and turned his head reluctantly to look down his outspread arms. He was lashed to a wagon, bound tight to a wheel with his arms hiked wide in a cruciform position. Rope held his wrists against the metal band. There was more about his shoulders and chest and ankles. He was spreadeagled; helpless.

  A shape blocked out his sight and a cold, bored voice impinged on his anger. It was a voice he hated.

  ‘It is sad, Mr. Onslow, sad but necessary.’ Montoya turned to face the burning Hoyos ranch. ‘There was no other choice. As a military man you should understand that.’

  ‘I never killed innocent people.’ His voice sounded thick, cloyed with blood and raw hate. ‘Not like this.’

  ‘You never fought a civil war,’ said Montoya. ‘You never had to deal with filthy peasant rebels.’

  Onslow spat.

  ‘One day I’ll kill you,’ he said. ‘If Linda dies, I promise you that.’

  Montoya laughed.

  Chapter Five

  THE GUNS WENT on firing through the night.

  Montoya was either a cunning strategist, or a sadist. He ordered the initial bombardment to cease and had his cannon fire at random intervals. There would be a period of silence, then one of the guns would shatter the quiet. More silence. Then a second cannon dropped a shell onto the hacienda. Silence again. Then the dull thunder. Then silence. Then noise.

  The pauses varied. Sometimes it was fifteen or twenty minutes between the shots. Then three shells would go off at five minute intervals. Then ten minutes of silence. Three minutes, fifteen, five, nine, twenty. The effect was to disrupt any chance of rest, as much for the federales as for the rebels. It was impossible to sleep, and for the men inside the hacienda it must have been impossible to relax at all. Onslow found himself counting the minutes between shots, tensing when he expected the blast, staying tense until it came; then wondering when the next cannon would go off.

  It felt like a lifetime before the stars faded out and the sky got gray. Dew beaded the grass and trees, dampened Onslow’s face. Mist swirled about the orange groves, transforming men and guns and horses to faint, ethereal shapes lit by the sporadic light of the muzzle flashes. The sky got red. At first it was a dark, almost brown, shade of crimson. Then it became the color of fresh blood that gave way to gold. Somewhere off to Onslow’s right a bird—braver than most—began to sing. The gold turned to silver, then pale blue. Then the blue got darker and pale white clouds showed.

  At the same time the ranch became visible.

  The damage was extensive. The outer walls were levelled across an area of about two hundred yards. Beyond, where the carefully-tended gardens had been, was a wasteland of pocked ground. A marble fountain spilled water into a shell hole, the basin shattered and the pedestal was blown down on its side. Horses lay in pools of blood, their bodies torn, ravaged by the shells. Beyond, the main house was fallen down at the western corner and in two places at the front. The roof was mostly gone and where the balcony had been there was only a dark space, broken occasionally by jutting remnants of the original stone.

  What had once been a proud and beautiful home was now a ruin, like a skull smashed in by hammer blows.

  Onslow’s mouth felt sour and dry. His body ached, and fire lanced his muscles where his arms were lashed to the wheel.

  Montoya emerged from his tent and sat down to breakfast. He ate well, taking his time. When the coffee was finished he wiped his lips and clapped his hands. A soldier brought a small glass and set it before the colonel. Montoya lifted it, inhaling the fragrance. Then he raised the glass to his mouth and tipped it back in one. Wiped his lips again and stood up.

  He sauntered over to Onslow.

  ‘I think they will come out now.’ Onslow smelt brandy on the Mexican’s breath. ‘If they are still alive.’

  Onslow tried to spit in his face, but he was too dry to muster the saliva.

  ‘We shall take a look,’ said Montoya. ‘Shall I take you with me?’

  Onslow nodded.

  Montoya chuckled. ‘I’ll have you cut down.’ He paused, then: ‘The outer picket said you had another man with you. A Negro who held my men at gun-point while you came through the lines. Where is he now?’

  ‘Gone,’ said Onslow. ‘I told him to get out.’

  His voice was thick enough that Montoya couldn’t understand what he said and called for water. Onslow swallowed gratefully.

  ‘I told him to get out,’ he repeated. ‘He’ll be long gone by now.’

  Montoya seemed to accept the explanation. At least, he called a trooper up to cut Onslow free of the wheel. Then laughed as the American fell on his face and groaned as he tried to massage feeling back into his stiffened limbs.

  Onslow stayed on the ground as long as he could, wriggling around to ease the stiffness and get some feeling back. When they hauled him upright and tied his hands together over his waist he was hurting, but able to walk.

  Montoya led the way up to the outer wall.

  The main gate was still standing. At least in part. Where a twenty foot section of wrought-iron had stood there was only one ragged buttress with a twisted contortion of metal swinging loose on a single hinge. The facing section was torn and flat.

  The air was thick with cordite and blood and flies.

  Beside the gate were two Lewis guns.

  They were dug into shallow trenches faced with sandbags. Federales were crouched eagerly around the guns, one handling the lever trigger, one holding the loose belt of cartridges, one poised to feed water to the cooling system or pass more belts to the loader.

  Montoya halted behind the safety of the remaining buttress.

  ‘Batista! Will you come out? Surrender! You have no chance.’

  Silence.

  Then a rifle shot.

  It flew high and wide, ricocheting off the remnants of the wall. The machine-gunners swung their weapon round, sighting over the cylindrical barrels. The click of the opened safety catches was very loud in the early morning stillness.

  Montoya glanced back, his podgy face disapproving. ‘No! Stay quiet.’

  He called for someone to put a gag on Onslow, waiting until the cloth was dragged tight back inside the American’s mouth.

  Then he called again.

  ‘You’re surrounded. You can’t get out. Give up.’

  Someone shouted: ‘No! You’ll kill us.’

  Montoya shouted: ‘How can I? You hold hostages. You have Ramon Hoyos in there. His daughter, too. I have her husband out here. He’s an American. He’ll be a witness. I promise you that I’ll let you go free if you give up Hoyos and his daughter.’ Onslow was held by two burly federales. He couldn’t speak or even struggle. All he could do was listen.

  ‘I’m not going to slaughter men in front of an American witness,’ shouted Montoya. ‘I want to make a deal.’

  ‘What deal?’ called the voice.

  ‘Come out with Hoyos and his daughter,’ shouted Montoya. ‘Turn them free and I’ll let you go. The American is my witness.’

  There was a long silence. Onslow slumped against his captors, trying to push feeling into his numb joints by willpower alone.

  ‘You give your word?’

  ‘Of course,’ shouted Montoya. ‘How can I kill you with an American witness? Especially when he’s married to Linda Hoyos.’

  ‘How can we trust you? How do we know you’re speaking the truth?’

  ‘Look,’ replied the colonel. ‘Get the woman up to see her husband.’

  He waved his hand and Onslow was dragged out from behind the gate. He saw Linda face him across three hundred yards of broken garden, held by a swarthy Mexican in a stained and dusty suit of black cloth.