“What kind of name is Grat?”

  It wasn’t the question Holden expected. He answered, though. “Short for Grattan. My mother’s maiden name.”

  “You like it?”

  “Grat? Or Grattan?”

  “Either.” Florence turned away and spit again.

  “Not particularly. Either one. Grat’s easier to handle. My folks didn’t give me any say in the matter, though.”

  “Got a middle name?”

  Holden stared at the man, wondering if Florence had lost his reason, or if he was playing some prank. Still, he had been brought up to respect his elders, and Sam Florence had saved his life and Ben Masterson’s life, back in that other canyon they had passed through.

  “Roosevelt.” Holden almost blushed. “I’ve no idea where that one came from.”

  Florence laughed. “They stacked the deck against you, sonny.” He leaned over so he could have a better view of Ben Masterson. “And you, bub?”

  “Benjamin Patrick Masterson. And you know it’s not polite in this country to ask a man his name.”

  “Yeah,” Florence said. “But I always want to know the name of the folks I’m gonna die with.” He sighed.

  “We don’t have to die,” Holden said softly. “At least . . . not here.”

  “We don’t. Maybe we won’t.” Florence nodded at the trail ahead. “But you think a mite, Lieutenant. You served under Captain Foster. Put yourself in his place. He just took four wagonloads of Springfield rifles, pig-stickers, and ammunition to Mexico. Stolen from the United States Army. So what’s he thinking? And what’s he doing? And what’s he planning?”

  CHAPTER 35

  The image of Jed Foster popped into Holden’s mind. He saw that bright smile, the cocky gleam in his eyes, the hat cocked at a rakish angle. Daring anyone to try to stop him, knowing his luck always held.

  “Well, he knows even Colonel Smythe will send pursuit.”

  “How many?”

  “Not a full force,” Holden answered faster, more certain. “Mexico would consider that an invasion, an act of war. Smythe can’t risk that. Jed knows it.”

  Holden nodded. Jed Foster had served under Carlton Smythe long enough to know that his vanity and his fear of failure would prevent the colonel from contacting Mexican authorities and informing them of the stolen rifles—and of Foster’s likely plan to sell them to start a bloodbath.

  “Six men,” the lieutenant said. “No more than ten. No. Six. That would be the most. Out of uniform.”

  Florence nodded his head. “Yeah. But Jed Foster would have forgotten just how big a miser the colonel is.”

  “Instead of six, he gets three,” Masterson said.

  “Two,” Sam Florence corrected. “I’m just along for the ride, boys. It just so happens that this ride takes me . . . us . . . through this here death trap.”

  Holden breathed in deeply and said without needing Florence’s prodding, “So Foster thinks six men. He knows we wouldn’t likely take the main road. Too many travelers.”

  Sam Florence was grinning.

  “But”—Holden nodded as he confirmed his theory, at least in his mind—“he has to make sure. He’ll leave a couple of his men on the road there to keep watch.”

  “Just a couple?” Florence asked.

  Holden answered quickly. “He doesn’t have that many men with him. Not enough to watch everywhere or set up an ambush at every possible location. And he knows that that Rebel general—”

  “Colonel,” Sam Foster corrected.

  “Colonel. Yes. Those unreconstructed Rebs know about the Springfields. So do the Apaches. And the Mexican revolutionaries—”

  “Bandits.”

  “So be it. They’ll want to get those weapons cheaper. By stealing them. So he’ll have to keep the bulk of his men with the wagons.”

  “Or hide the wagons,” Ben Masterson said.

  “Maybe. But hiding four wagons loaded down with all that iron won’t be easy. He can’t bury them. There’s not enough time. His deadline is coming up, and anyone paying his ransom will want to see the merchandise before they hand over the money. Especially General . . . Colonel . . . whatever his name is.”

  “Muncie,” Florence said. “Will Muncie.”

  “So,” Masterson said, “how does our capt’n protect his merchandise? Keep it safe if he can’t spare that many men?”

  “I don’t know,” Holden said. He thought for a minute and then stopped. “And that’s not our concern for the moment.”

  “Right-o!” Florence slapped his thigh and smiled. “You might make captain, sonny. Major even. If you live.”

  “Right now,” Holden said, “I’ll settle for the living part.”

  “Then here’s a thought,” Masterson said. “We leave here and take the main road. Not all of us at once, but one at a time. They’ll be expecting two, four, six men together. One man might not arouse suspicion.”

  Florence nodded. “Not bad.” He eyed Holden. “What do you think, Major?”

  Holden thought and then asked, “How busy is that road, Mr. Florence?”

  The scout shrugged. “It sure ain’t Front Street in Tombstone when the miners get paid. Depends on the season and the day. I know the season . . . but not the day. A few travelers.”

  “They could pick us off one at a time?” Holden asked.

  “If they were so inclined.”

  “Why would they do that?” Masterson asked.

  “What if Jed Foster were watching? He’d recognize you and me . . . and Mr. Florence.”

  “Son,” the scout said, “let’s drop that Mister part. Mr. Florence makes me feel older than I really am.”

  Holden didn’t pay attention. He kept answering Masterson’s question. “And if you did get past those watchdogs, we’d be entering Rancho Los Cielos alone. If Foster’s not on the road, he’d be waiting in that town, most likely.”

  “He’ll be wherever the Springfields are,” Masterson pointed out.

  Holden’s head nodded in confirmation. “And those Springfields might be parked on the main street in Rancho Los Cielos. We just don’t know. I don’t think we can risk riding into town one at a time.”

  Masterson thought, frowned, and finally nodded. “That’s why I am . . . or was . . . a sergeant. Not a shavetail second lieutenant.”

  “Soon to be major,” Florence said with a grin.

  “If he lives,” Holden added.

  Holden let out a heavy sigh, and studied the Winchester he was carrying.

  “We could,” Masterson said, “take another road or follow that coyote Florence was suggesting.”

  “We could.” Holden nodded and eared back the hammer on the Winchester. “But we’re outnumbered. I’d like to reduce the odds a bit.” He tilted his jaw toward the canyon’s entrance. “I’ll ride in. You work your way up that side of the ridge, Masterson. Florence”—he looked at the old scout—“I can’t ask you to do a thing. Like you said, you’re just riding along with us till we get to town. And I reckon we can find our way from here.”

  Florence swung out of the saddle, and drew his rifle from the scabbard.

  “You can’t ask me to do a damned thing, Mr. Grattan Roosevelt Holden, but I can do what I please. And it pleases me to work my way up this side of the canyon.”

  Holden wet his lips. Masterson was tethering his gelding to the branch of a juniper a few yards back before the canyon began. Florence was leading his pinto to the other side, and after tethering it, he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out an extra box of ammunition.

  Masterson started up the rocky edge. “I’d like to be riding my horse into Rancho Los Cielos real soon. I could use a beer about now.”

  He moved up the slope like a cougar, quiet, intense. Every sense of his was aware of anything and everything.

  Sam Florence nodded at Holden. “Give us five minutes. Probably ain’t enough, but if some fellows are waiting for us up above, they’ll be getting impatient real quick.”

  He turned to go, but Holden called out, careful not to speak too loudly. “What’s your full name?”

  The old scout turned and beamed. “Why, sonny, don’t you know it ain’t polite in this country to ask a man his name? If he wants you to know it, he’ll tell you himself.”

  Then he was gone.

  Holden felt himself grin. He waited. Those five minutes passed almost instantly, and he kicked his horse and walked into the darkening, deepening death trap.

  CHAPTER 36

  The best of his bunch, which wasn’t saying much, went into Mariscos out of breath.

  Jed Foster was sitting alone at a poker table, dealing blackjack to himself and his imaginary partner. A cup of coffee rested near his revolver, the long barrel pointed at the entrance to the saloon.

  “They’re comin’,” said the man who called himself Russell.

  Foster looked at his cards. He had a ten of diamonds and a six of spades. Sixteen. His imaginary opponent had a four of clubs showing. Ignoring the man in the doorway, Foster said aloud, “I’ll stay.” He reached and turned the card lying facedown over. It was the ten of spades. He dealt another card up. Eight of hearts.

  “Busted.” Foster grinned. “I win.” He turned back to Russell, a tall man in blue jeans, black boots, and a tan shield-front shirt. A battered gray Stetson sat on his head and on his hips were two Navy Colts that had been converted to take brass cartridges in .38 caliber.

  “Which way?” Foster asked.

  “The road that leads south.”

  Foster sank back into his chair. He picked up the cup and sipped coffee, blowing on it to cool it off. The bartender had just topped it off a minute before Russell came in with the news.

  “South.” Foster sipped again. South. That wouldn’t be any soldiers the imbecile Colonel Carlton Smythe sent and—He stiffened. Had Smythe showed backbone and common sense and alerted the Mexican officials?

  “How many?”

  “Lot of dust. Fifteen. Sixteen. Somewhere around there. Traveling at a trot. I figure it’s the greaser army.”

  Not enough. The Mexican army or the Rurales would have sent twice that many, at the least, had they known what they were dealing with. And Foster just would not accept the notion that Carlton Smythe could ever do the right thing, the logical thing. So if not the Mexicans, then who?

  Not Apaches. Russell and the others on sentry duty would never have seen any dust. They wouldn’t have seen a damned thing until the Apaches were killing them . . . silently.

  Not Amonte Negro and his bandits, either. If that stupid Mexican had planned on trying anything, he would have done it by now, and Foster figured he had paid Negro and his boys off with his gift of the new Springfields and the chore he had asked them to do. That would occupy their time.

  He laughed and rose. “Did you see a guidon? A flag? Some banner in the breeze?”

  Russell’s dirty head nodded. “That’s why we figured them to be greasers. The Mex army.”

  “No.” Foster picked up the Colt and holstered it. “It’s not the Rurales or the army of Mexico. Stay in here, Russell. Cover me from the doorway. Don’t shoot unless you hear the whole world end in thunder.”

  After pulling his hat down low, he started out the door, looked around and smiled at the four wagons still waiting in the street, guarded by one man per wagon. The mules and other livestock stood contentedly in the corral next to the saloon across the street. He turned back to Russell and asked, “How far away?”

  “Close by now,” Russell answered. “Like I said, they was raising a lot of dust. Trotting pretty hard.”

  “Good.”

  Foster left Mariscos and when he was in the center of the street, he looked at the men guarding the wagons. “We’ll be having company joining us soon, boys. Don’t kill them unless my luck runs out and they kill me . . . which won’t happen. So make sure you don’t make any mistakes. Do that, and I’ll have to kill you.”

  As his smile widened, Jed Foster hurried through the dust and into La Cantina Que No Tiene Nombre, The Cantina That Has No Name.

  He whipped his hat off and bowed at the stunning Soledad Tadeo, who sat in a chair, drying her glistening wet hair with a towel. A bowl of soapy water was on the table in front of her. Foster could smell the fragrance of yucca. She was beautiful, but her dark eyes gazed at him with hate.

  “Your monthly bath, señorita?” he asked.

  She replied with an indelicate and quite offensive phrase.

  He laughed again.

  “Well, once you’ve made yourself presentable, I think you might like to watch a conversation I am about to have outside with some of your dear pal Amonte Negro’s competitors. They want the rifles as bad, perhaps even worse, than your, ahem, revolutionary. I thought that you could watch as we do some horse-trading. Then you can tell your boyfriend—”

  “He is not my boyfriend,” she said icily.

  “Well. You can tell your heroic fighter for the people what he has to compete against.”

  By then, he heard the hooves pounding outside. Russell was right. Those boys were not dillydallying at all.

  “I can’t keep my guests waiting.” Foster bowed, blew Soledad Tadeo a kiss, and told the bartender, “I’d keep my head low and my face out of sight, amigo.”

  Casually, Jed Foster walked back outside.

  CHAPTER 37

  Colonel Will Muncie lifted his gauntleted left hand and brought his Andalusian stallion, the grayish color of gunmetal, to a halt. The dozen men riding behind him all stopped their horses. Sabers in scabbards rattled, leather creaked, and the horses began blowing or urinating. Muncie used that moment to remove his deerskin gauntlets and begin pounding his chest and thighs, trying to remove the dust from his new French-made Confederate uniform.

  The long-haired rapscallion and miserable Yankee stepped out of the doorway of some pathetic watering hole to Muncie’s right. The man was a traitor. Worse, he was a cocky traitor. Muncie would have had an officer in his legion flogged for showing that kind of attitude. Drummed him out of the service. Maybe even had him shot by a firing squad. No, that was a death for a soldier, not a traitor. Jed Foster—No, Muncie would have hanged that type of man. He might hang Jed Foster yet.

  * * *

  He decided to ignore the Yankee soldier and as he beat his clothes, he looked at the four freight wagons in the street. The tailgates were open. He could see the canvas covering boxes. To his amazement, some of the canvas had been rolled up and tied near the front of the wagon. The boxes were there, just sitting there in the back of one of the wagons, beckoning.

  Wooden boxes, long, firmly made and stamped on the side.

  SPRINGFIELD ARMORY

  Springfield, Massachusetts

  US RIFLE, CALIBER .45-70-405, MILITARY

  One crate had even been opened, and Muncie saw the emblem—two crossed cannon with a black cannonball at the center and flames shooting above the wide oval that covered parts of the crisscrossed cannon. It was burned into the lid leaning up against other boxes.

  SPRINGFIELD ARMORY read the top of the circle. And at the bottom was SINCE 1794.

  He wet his lips. He felt envious. He could taste victory. The breeze picked up and he heard the battle jack flapping in the wind. Like old times. He could smell the battle, hear the muskets, see the banners waving and brave men dying. Will Muncie almost smiled.

  Then Jed Foster had to speak.

  “You’re early, Colonel,” the traitor said. “Our deal is not scheduled for a few more days. Not here, either. Remember? On Independence Day.”

  Muncie stiffened. July Fourth. He would never celebrate that day again. The day Vicksburg surrendered. The day Gettysburg was lost for good. The day his only son was . . .

  Foster finished his sentence. “At The Canyon of The Sorrows.”

  Sorrows. Muncie’s shoulders slumped. He had gone through enough sorrows. But he regained his composure, found his dignity, and unbuttoned the coat just enough to shove his gauntlets inside. He took a quick look at Foster and the men and the nearby buildings. Four men in the wagons, plus the traitor. Likely a few more inside the buildings. But nowhere near enough to survive if Will Muncie ordered a fight.

  But that must wait.

  He pointed a finger at the open crate.

  “Wanted, suh, to make sure I would be biddin’ on merchandise in the best order. But seein’ how that lid is open, well, a good rainstorm might give me cause to lower my bid on . . . July Fourth.”

  “Reese,” Foster said. “Why don’t you hop up on the back of that wagon and put the lid back on where it belongs. But be careful. Don’t rock the wagon even a hair. Don’t want our friend the colonel to have to lower his bid and reduce our profits.”

  The gunman leaned his rifle, an old Henry, against the rear wheel and started to pull himself into the wagon bed.

  “Gentle,” Foster reminded him. “And show the colonel one of those babies.”

  Reese moved slowly and gingerly bent to pull out a Springfield. He held it up, and Will Muncie’s eyes beamed.

  “Two hundred and forty-nine, Colonel,” Jed Foster said. “Just like that one, sir. I’d let you borrow it. But you’re all dusty. And you don’t want to buy a rifle that has dust on it. Do you?”

  Reese took the hint and returned the rifle to the crate. He slid the lid up and onto the top, but did not nail it shut. Slowly . . . agonizingly slow . . . he moved to the side of the wagon and crawled down. Most men would have jumped. He took the Henry and resumed his stance.

  Muncie wet his lips.

  “What do you think these rifles will go for?”

  Foster shrugged. “Well, I think I’ll set my minimum purchase at fifty a rifle.”

  The colonel laughed. “When the factory would charge thirty?”

  “You can always place an order in Springfield, Colonel. But that would mean you’d have to do business with a Yankee outfit in a damn Yankee state.”

  “Do you think anyone in this country can come up with that much money?”

  Foster grinned. “Well, sir. I don’t know. But let’s say that you and Señor Amonte and that old Crooked Nose himself don’t have enough money to make it worth my while. Well, then I’ll just travel south. There are other outfits who might have enough money. Maybe even the Mexican army. Or since I find myself now to be a man of leisure, I might travel all the way to South America. This country is just full of opportunities.”