‘Something like that,’ said Onslow.

  ‘Oh yeah? That man just killed your wife and blew her father’s ranch to pieces. He’s sure to accept your kind offer. After that, he’ll shoot us all.’

  ‘He’s fighting a war,’ said Onslow, ‘that means there’s another side.’

  ‘The rebels?’ McCloud’s mouth gaped open and he winced, patting at his cut lip. ‘Where they gonna get the money? How can you know they’d pay us, not take the guns? How can we find them?’

  ‘I can find them,’ said Onslow, ‘and I’m pretty sure they’ll have the money. Especially if we promise to find them more guns.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’ McCloud shook his head. ‘Best thing we can do is go back over the line and sell in Texas or New Mexico.’

  ‘You’re forgetting a few things,’ murmured Onslow. ‘Like the fact that you’re wanted in Texas. Like the fact that me an’ Jonas are posted as deserters. Like the fact that it was Ramon Hoyos’ money that bought the guns.’

  ‘Well he ain’t in any position to argue,’ said McCloud, ‘and you been back to the States since you quit the Army.’

  ‘To buy, not sell,’ said Onslow tersely. ‘There’s one hell of a difference. Dammit, Yates, can’t you see? We ride back into America—any one of us—and start selling guns, then we have to stop around somewhere. Stop long enough for word to get out to buyers. The same word goes to the Army or the Texas Rangers or the law, an’ we end up in prison. Or hung.’

  ‘We could split up. Take our own chances. On our own.’

  Onslow shook his head. ‘No. It was Ramon Hoyos put up the money, not you. You got paid to come down here. You even got busted outta jail. You want to quit now, you go ahead. Only you don’t take anything with you: you ride out like we found you. You want to do that, go ahead. Leave now.’

  McCloud drank some coffee. He winced as the hot liquid touched his raw gums and the insides of his mouth. After a while he stopped spluttering and sighed.

  ‘The trouble with you Onslow is you got too much sense of duty.’

  ‘He makes sense,’ said Strong.

  McCloud looked like he was about to argue, then thought better of it. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what do we do?’

  ‘Sell guns.’ Onslow’s voice was quiet, calm. ‘We find the rebels and make the best deal we can. After that you do what you like.’

  McCloud nodded. ‘All right. You’re the boss. For now.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ said Onslow. ‘You’d best understand it from the start.’

  McCloud looked suspicious. Jonas Strong looked worried: Onslow’s voice had sounded cold and empty, yet fired with some kind of decision. Both men waited for him to speak again.

  ‘I want Montoya,’ he said. ‘I want to know the guns will be used against him. If not that, I’ll stay on and kill him myself.’

  Strong nodded: ‘Suits me.’

  McCloud shrugged. ‘So long as I get squared off.’

  ‘What about the Kid?’ Onslow asked. ‘Will he take it?’

  ‘Ask him yoreself; or don’t I have a vote?’

  Jamie Durham sat down with the right side of his face to the fire. He kept the left turned away and when he leaned towards the others he hid his scars under his outstretched hand.

  Onslow told him what they had agreed.

  ‘Shit! I like Mexico,’ grinned Durham. ‘It’s a whole lot easier to get morphine down here than in the good ole US of A. An’ Mexican ladies ain’t so particular about how you look.’

  ‘Good,’ said Onslow, ‘that’s settled.’

  ‘How you reckon to contact the rebels?’ asked McCloud. ‘Or do we just sit here and wait for them?’

  ‘There’s a village to the west,’ said Onslow, ‘a little place called San Cristobal. I’ll ride over there and ask around. They’ll know.’

  ‘How about us?’ said Jamie. ‘What are we supposed to do?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Onslow. ‘Stay right here and wait.’

  ‘Not too long,’ said Jamie. And his voice sounded almost pleading. ‘I can’t wait long.’

  ‘No,’ said Onslow, ‘I know that.’

  He stood up and went over to the rim of the slope. He spent a long time staring down. He could make out the broken edges of the walls and see the dark pockmarks of the shell-holes. There was still smoke lifting from the shattered roof. The smoke was gray and wispy now. The column of vultures that was spiraling down was much darker.

  It was the only sign of life visible at that distance.

  The air was warm and carried a scent of oranges. The sky was very blue, clouds showing only on the horizon. Onslow shivered despite the warmth.

  Chapter Seven

  SAN CRISTOBAL WAS tucked into a fold of hills to the south-west of Aqua Prieta. There was a spring bubbling up out of the naked rock into a basin a hundred feet across. The water drained away somewhere, but the basin stayed full winter and summer, which was how the village stayed alive. It consisted of thirteen adobe houses, one cantina, a general store, a shoe maker’s, a stage office that had been closed up since the line went broke four years ago, and a corral with a falling-down barn attached.

  When Onslow rode in it was quiet, the bleached adobe of the houses turning yellow under the fading sun.

  There were old men slumped along the sidewalks and nine horses in the corral.

  The horses all wore brands. The brands came from three ranches; two American, one Mexican.

  Onslow rode up to the cantina and went inside.

  It was dark and cool and smoky. There were small groups of men sitting at the tables, eating and drinking and playing pinochle or stud or dice. The bar was a single long plank built up on trestles with a length of dirty canvas nailed to the outer rim. Behind it, shelves were cut into the walls. They held dusty bottles of tequila and pulque and a few of whisky.

  Onslow asked for a beer.

  The barkeep laughed and suggested whisky.

  Onslow settled for tequila.

  It came with salt and lemon and he knew it had to be strong stuff. It was. But it didn’t make him blink enough to miss the curious stares of the other drinkers.

  When he was finished coughing he studied them, his eyes adjusted now to the dim light.

  There were three distinct groups. One was comprised of old men who sipped their pulque slowly and with care, nursing the fierce native liquor as they turned their cards and chatted with little interest for the strange gringo at the bar. The second section was made up of young men looking nervous and excited. They were dressed in the same kind of costumes as the oldsters: white shirts and cotton pants; but they wore guns. The third group wore finer clothing. Concho pants and heavy spurs; some short-waisted jackets with silver studding; guns. They all wore guns.

  Onslow smiled and poured a second tequila. It went down smoother than the first, but he coughed and spat as though the liquor hit him hard. At the same time he studied the third group.

  There were three men with bandoliers slung over both shoulders, pistols belted to both hips. Two more carried rifles—a box-magazine Winchester and a bolt-action Carcano. One wore a Luger. The other three carried Colt revolvers in single holsters. They all stared at Onslow. They were seated around three separate tables, one mid-way down the cantina, the other two against the walls at the far end.

  Onslow picked up his bottle and sauntered over to the nearest table.

  ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Your kind.’

  ‘You’re a cattle buyer?’

  Onslow shook his head.

  ‘Then what business can you have with poor vaqueros?’

  ‘You carry a great many guns for “poor vaqueros.’’’

  ‘These are hard times, yanqui. A man needs his guns.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’ Onslow sat down without being asked. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Onslow shrugged, smiling. ‘Will you take a drink with me while I explain?’

  Three glasses slid across the greasy table. Onslow filled them.

  ‘Salud!’

  ‘Y pesetas.’

  ‘Y amor.’

  ‘What business is it that brings you to a place like San Cristobal?’

  The speaker was a dark, heavy-looking man with sleepy eyes and a drooping moustache. He wore a single Colt on his right hip and had a Winchester canted back against the wall where he could reach it fast. Onslow noticed the tell-tale bulge of a hidden gun under his jacket.

  ‘Guns,’ he said softly. ‘I have them to sell.’

  The Mexican smiled and Onslow realized that he was a handsome man: his smile was cheerful, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

  He said: ‘Why should we want guns?’

  ‘Because you need them,’ said Onslow. ‘To protect your charges.’

  The Mexican laughed. ‘Señor, speak your piece. Perhaps we might be interested; maybe not. Let’s see.’

  ‘I got three machine-guns and a pile of ammunition,’ said Onslow. ‘Bolt-action rifles. Grenades. Automatic pistols. Explosives, too.’

  The Mexican whistled between his teeth and shook his hand in front of his mouth.

  ‘You have a great deal to sell, señor ...?’

  ‘Onslow. You interested?’

  ‘Perhaps. Where are all these guns and explosives?’

  ‘That’s my business. If you’re interested I’ll show them to you. If you got the money to buy.’

  The Mexican grinned. ‘Why do you trust us? We might just take them.’

  Onslow smiled back. ‘You couldn’t. If you want to see them, we’ll agree a place and time; I’ll bring them to you. Otherwise forget it.’

  ‘I think we might find the money,’ said the Mexican gently. ‘If the price is right.’

  ‘Four thousand dollars American,’ said Onslow. ‘For that you get two Hawkins and one Maxim. Ammunition for all. There’s three crates full of grenades and three dozen Mannlicher-Carcanos. Also mines and dynamite. That sound fair?’

  ‘It would sound fairer at two thousand dollars.’

  ‘I spent a lot on those guns,’ said Onslow. ‘Four sounds good.’

  ‘Two thousand five hundred.’

  ‘I’ll do you a favor: drop to three an’ a half.’

  ‘Three.’

  Onslow shook his head. ‘Not enough. I got men to pay. Make it three thousand two-fifty an’ we got a deal.’

  The Mexican stuck his hand out. Onslow took it.

  ‘I am Jesus Sanchez.’

  ‘Cade Onslow.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ said Onslow. ‘A federale officer—Colonel Montoya ...’

  Jesus Sanchez’ face went suddenly blank. He leaned to one side and spat on the dirty floor. Onslow heard the quietly loud sound of hands touching gun butts.

  ‘ ... I want to know where he is. So I can kill him.’

  The hairs on his neck prickled as though they sensed, independent of vision, the muzzles pointed at his body.

  ‘Why?’ asked Sanchez.

  ‘He killed my wife.’

  ‘Rafael Montoya has killed many wives. Why should this particular killing affect my guns?’

  ‘They’re not yours yet,’ said Onslow. ‘Not until you hand over the money. I’m asking a favor now.’

  Sanchez nodded slowly and the guns went away from behind Onslow.

  ‘Montoya went towards the border after killing Batista at the Hoyos ranch,’ said Sanchez. ‘Were you related there?’

  ‘Linda Hoyos was my wife,’ said Onslow. ‘Montoya killed her.’

  Sanchez shrugged. ‘You pick poor wives, Cade Onslow. The Hoyos spread was hacendado land. The kind of thing we fight against.’

  ‘He killed my wife.’ Onslow said it slowly, emphasizing each word. ‘I want him. I want to see him dead.’

  Sanchez smiled again. ‘Then our aims coincide. Killing Montoya would be a favor to the revolution. I shall let you know where he is when we have the guns.’

  ‘All right,’ said Onslow, ‘it’s a deal.’

  They settled down to talking over the details. It was agreed that Onslow should get the weapons ready for delivery in two days’ time. Sanchez would meet him in San Cristobal with the money and the information. They shook hands again and Onslow rode away.

  He rode fast, putting space behind himself and the village. When he got back onto the ridge he cut off into a stand of lodgepole pines and turned his horse round to face back towards the trail. There was a lone rider following after him, heading fast up the slope. Onslow came out from the trees as the man breasted the crest. He had the Mauser cocked and pointed. The man reined in.

  ‘Go back,’ said Onslow. ‘Go back and tell Sanchez to trust me. I’ll deliver the guns, but if you keep following me I’ll kill you.’

  The man turned round.

  Onslow sat his mount, watching until he was sure the rider was headed back to San Cristobal. Then he went on to find his companions.

  He reached them the following morning, and explained the situation. McCloud objected to trusting the Villistas, Jonas Strong was ready to go along with Onslow, Jamie Durham was undecided. Onslow produced an alternative plan, a kind of insurance policy.

  They took the two wagons along the ridge to a place Onslow remembered visiting with Linda. It was about ten miles to the east, where the ridge got turned away to the north in a wild jumble of broken rock interspersed with caves. There was a box canyon there that still had the dried-out memories of adobe huts from some earlier age. The huts were built up in terraces along both walls of the canyon, with shattered stairways cut to the higher levels.

  When they arrived, Onslow explained his plan and Jamie Durham came into his element.

  They took both wagons partway down the canyon and backed them into the remnants of a building. The clay walls hid them from view on two sides, the cliff at the rear. They dragged tumbleweed around the entrance when the wagons were unloaded and spent an hour shoveling dirt over the boxes and their tracks.

  The entire load was hidden, apart from one small box of dynamite and a crate of landmines.

  These Durham placed around the canyon. He took his time, selecting his locations with care, studying the hang of the cliffs and the path of approach. He set two sticks of dynamite inside a box of landmines, two more in the remaining explosives. All four sticks were wired up to thin cable that he spread along the canyon floor and covered with sand. He climbed up the cliff and tucked more dynamite around the faces of the entrance, then looped the wires down to a point outside and above the narrow alley leading in. He plugged the wires into a detonator and then hid the box, unprimed, in a cleft thirty feet over the trail.

  At the entrance he placed two mines, one level with the canyon’s walls, one ten feet farther in. Thirty feet beyond he planted two more. Then three, spread out where the alley opened up into the box. The last three were in a line, separated by about five feet apiece. He primed them all and planted tufts of broken-off mesquite in the dust on either side.

  After that he made Onslow and the others memorize the places until he was confident they could ride through without tripping the detonators.

  Then they all went back to San Cristobal.

  The same horses were waiting in the corral and the same men inside the cantina.

  ‘You’re early,’ said Sanchez. ‘Who are your friends?’

  Onslow introduced them. Strong sat with Onslow, McCloud and Durham eased up against the bar, close to the fly-blown windows.

  ‘Where are the guns?’ Sanchez asked. ‘Outside?’

  Onslow shook his head. ‘No. They’re in a canyon. You get them when we get the money.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ Sanchez looked almost hurt. ‘Why not here?’

  ‘You got the money?’ Onslow countered.

  Sanchez clapped his hands and a man appeared with two bulked-out sacks over his shoulders. He dropped them at Onslow’s feet.

  ‘Take a look,’ said Sanchez. ‘It’s all there.’

  Onslow tugged the bags open. They were filled with notes, mostly tens and fives, some twenties. All American dollars.

  ‘Where’d you get this lot?’ asked Onslow.

  Sanchez shrugged, smiling. ‘Why ask questions? It’s money isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Onslow pulled the sacks closed. ‘Yeah, it’s money. Now we’ll show you the guns.’

  They stood up and walked out of the cantina.

  It was mid-afternoon and the street was bright and quiet. There was a dog barking over some shreds of offal, ignoring the spit the old men directed its way. Blinds were drawn down over most of the windows and the place had a feeling of resigned laziness. Off to the south, where the village gave up its struggle against the land and faded away into dusty emptiness there was a column of horsemen.

  They were coming in fast, lifting dust behind them like spreading fire. They wore gray uniforms and peaked caps. They were federales.

  They opened fire as they sighted Onslow and the others.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Sanchez, ‘but I thought we had lost them.’

  Onslow glanced at the sacks of money and began to voice a question. Sanchez grinned and nodded before the American had the words out of his mouth.

  ‘I think we better ride fast,’ he said. ‘Before they catch us.’

  ‘Us?’ Onslow was mounting as he spoke. ‘Why us?’

  Sanchez chuckled. ‘Poor vaqueros don’t make enough to buy your kind of goods, señor Onslow, we have to find the money where we can.’

  ‘Shit!’ snarled Onslow. ‘Let’s go.’

  They took off with the federales close behind them, spilling down the street in a wide column of nervous horses and running men. Abruptly, Onslow remembered that Sanchez and his men had their horses in the corral.

  ‘Wait!’

  His holler pulled McCloud and the Kid up tight, turning to look back.