Jacob smiled. “You sounded like my mother then, Lorena.”

  “And I pray I can remain as strong as Saraid was.”

  “Then I guess it’s all settled,” Shawn said. “I’m riding.”

  After his brother left, Jacob rose and passed little Shamus to Samuel. “I’m going out for a scout around. I’m restless being caged up like this.”

  “Be careful, Jake,” Samuel said. “We can’t predict what Castillo will do next. The man is obviously crazy.”

  “I’ll be on guard.”

  Jacob stepped into the foyer to buckle on his gun then stepped outside into the growing darkness. The moon had not yet risen, but the night was clear, already bright with stars. He walked to the rise that stood opposite the house, sat, and fetched his back against a pine. He built a cigarette and smoked, listening to the distant bark of the coyotes and the wind that whispered secrets to the trees.

  Alone with his thoughts, a man of black moods and echoing loneliness, he was still there when the newly minted moon came up, round and shiny as a silver coin.

  Patrick O’Brien stared across the moonlit clearing to the Mexicans gathered around the fire. He counted them again, just to be sure, and came up with the same figure—eighteen including Álvaro Castillo.

  That was too many for Dromore to handle if they all went against it at once.

  The new moon rose high, surrounded by a hazy ring that predicted inclement weather. “Count the stars inside the ring, and they will tell you how many days from now the rain will start.” Patrick smiled. Luther had told him that, so it must be true.

  The Mexicans around the fire seemed to be arguing, but then the discussion stopped and Castillo staggered toward him, a bottle in his hand. “My very good friend, Señor Patrick,” the Mexican said, spreading his arms wide. “How are you tonight? Well, I hope.”

  “Same as I was last night, Castillo, wishing I had a gun so I could put a bullet in your fat belly.”

  “Ahh, that is not good, because you are Álvaro’s friend again. See, I have even brought you whiskey.” He looked sly. “A woman? Is that what you want? Would you like a woman?”

  “I’d like you to get the hell away from me,” Patrick said.

  “That is not a nice thing you say to a friend.” Castillo was stinking drunk. The cruelty that was never far from his eyes made them gleam. He kneeled beside Patrick and pushed the bottle to his lips. “Drink, my friend. Your friend Álvaro wishes you to be as happy as he is this night.”

  Patrick turned his head away, his mouth clamped shut.

  “I said drink, you pig!” Castillo yelled.

  The shout attracted a crowd and drunk, grinning Mexicans surrounded the two men. They pointed at Patrick and laughed as though the sight of him was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

  “Drink!” Castillo said again. He grabbed Patrick by the hair and forced his head around. The Mexican slammed the bottle against Patrick’s mouth so hard his lip split and he tasted blood with the raw whiskey.

  “Drink!” Castillo said, grinning. He shoved harder on the bottle and slammed the neck against Patrick’s clenched teeth. Then the Mexican grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open.“ Drink, damn you!” he yelled, pushing hard on the bottle. “Drink like a man.”

  Despite his efforts, whiskey flooded into Patrick’s mouth and he was forced to swallow, his throat bobbing.

  “See, compadres,” Castillo said, looking up at his men. “The butterfly-catching gringo can drink like a man.”

  The Mexican rose to his feet then kicked Patrick in the ribs, his thudding boot going in once . . . twice . . . three times....

  Patrick stifled the urge to cry out in pain, refusing to give Castillo the satisfaction.

  “Next time Castillo asks you to take a drink, you take a drink, understand?”

  “Go to hell,” Patrick said.

  “It is just as well you’re not my friend again.” Castillo smiled. “But tomorrow perhaps you will be, when you lead my charge against your father’s fine house.” The Mexican’s smile grew into a grin. “A house that will soon be the hacienda of Don Álvaro Castillo.”

  That drew a cheer from the bandit’s men and Castillo yelled, “This time tomorrow, mis compadres, we will roast a pig at Dromore!”

  More cheers, then staggering, slapping each other on the back, the Mexicans returned to the fire, leaving Patrick alone.

  He was slightly drunk, puzzled that he would lead the charge against Dromore. He gave serious thought to that as blood from his split lips trickled down his chin.

  Through his alcohol haze, it suddenly dawned on him. He’d be riding in front of Castillo’s men, lashed to the saddle probably, and that would reduce Dromore’s firepower because his brothers would be fearful of hitting him.

  He stared at the haloed moon and wished the night would go on forever. He feared what tomorrow might bring . . . .

  Could it be the end of Dromore and the brothers O’Brien?

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Shawn O’Brien led eight vaqueros into Dromore just before dawn. He’d left three others and a couple of seasonal hands out on the range, choosing only men of proven courage who were good with the iron.

  Jacob approved of his selection. “They’ll do.”

  Shawn considered that high praise indeed from his brother. “With you, Sam, and me, we’ll be eleven strong. You reckon that’s enough?”

  “It will have to be enough.” Jacob managed a smile. “Hell, Shawn, it’s more than enough.”

  One of the riders kneed his horse forward and Shawn said, “You got something to say to me, Regino?”

  “Sí, señor,” Regino Vargas said. “Once I scouted for the army of Presidente Porfirio Diaz and he gave me a fine gold medal from his own hand. I can find Álvaro Castillo for you.”

  “Ride on out of here, Regino,” Jacob said. “Get me that no-good Mexican bandit.”

  “Sí señor. I will find him, I promise.” Vargas kicked his mount into motion, waved his sombrero at his cheering companions, and galloped east into the violet light of the new day.

  Fifteen minutes later the O’Brien brothers led their vaqueros in Vargas’s tracks.

  Samuel turned in the saddle and said to Jacob and Shawn, “Times are changing and this could be the last battle we ever fight for Dromore, so make the most of it.”

  “I just wish the Colonel and Luther were here,” Shawn said.

  “To join in the fun?” Jacob asked.

  “No, to boost the courage I suddenly find I lack. In short, I’m damned scared.” Shawn grimaced.

  “Once the shooting starts, you’ll do fine. The smell of burned powder always settles a man.”

  “Damn it, Jake, if I cut and run, please kill me,” Shawn said.

  Jacob nodded. “With the greatest of pleasure, brother. Two in the back, I promise.”

  Samuel grinned. “So now you know, Shawn.”

  “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  Jacob winked at Samuel, but caught up in his own gloomy thoughts, Shawn didn’t notice.

  The Dromore men stopped to water their horses at the Pecos. There was no sign of Regino Vargas.

  The sun was climbing higher, bringing with it a fierce heat that stained the riders’ shirts black with sweat. Jacob scanned the far bank of the river, but saw only pines sweeping away in the distance before rising with the rocky crags and merging into stands of aspen and juniper. The normally talkative vaqueros were silent, their eyes searching. No sound disturbed the quiet of the fading morning

  “Well, where do we go from here?” Samuel said, more to himself than anyone else. “Pick a direction, boys.”

  “I’m studying on it.” Jacob lifted his head as though his great beak of a nose was testing the wind, and then bowed his head in thought.

  After a minute passed, Samuel said, “Well?”

  “We’ll hold here for an hour,” Jacob said, building a cigarette.

  “For what, Jake?”

  “For one of two things—either Castillo passes this way or Regino shows up with some news.”

  “Should we at least send out some scouts?” Samuel asked.

  “We have a scout out,” Shawn said. “And he won a fine gold medal for tracking folks, remember?”

  “Feeling better, Shawn?” Jacob said, smiling.

  “Yeah, I feel better, Jake. Given your homicidal intentions, if I turned tail, did I have any choice?”

  Jacob shook his head. “None that I could see.”

  Shawn glared at his brother. “Don’t you ever get scared?”

  “All the time,” Jacob said. “I’m scared right now.”

  “Count me in on that as well,” Samuel said.

  “I’m glad Luther isn’t here listening,” Shawn said. “He’d take a stick to us.”

  “Yeah,” Jacob said, “and the colonel would take up another, bigger one.”

  Samuel posted a couple of vaqueros up- and downstream of their position and led the rest of the men into the trees on the west bank of the river. They made a cold camp, saw to their guns, then dozed in the sunlight and waited for whatever was to come.

  Half an hour later, as drowsy insects murmured in the grass around them, a flurry of shots from downstream brought everyone to their feet.

  An instant later, Vargas and the guard galloped through the shallows, fountains of river water erupting around the legs of their horses.

  “Where are they?” Jacob yelled, gun in hand.

  “They’re right on top of us!” Vargas hollered, blood staining the left sleeve of his shirt.

  He and the vaquero leaped from their horses, turned and fired at a target obscured from Jacob’s view by pine and cottonwoods.

  Patrick galloped into sight, roped to his horse, bouncing and swaying in the saddle. The Mexicans were right behind him, Álvaro Castillo in the lead.

  The Dromore riders recovered quickly from their surprise and guns roared from among the trees.

  Castillo, who’d believed he was chasing stragglers, realized he’d charged into a hornet’s nest. He stood in the saddle and waved his men back, his broad face frantic. The Dromore riders had scored hits and the bodies of two Mexican bandits bobbed in the water.

  Jacob caught a glimpse of Castillo and readied to fire. At that moment, Patrick managed to turn his mount and rode in front of the bandit, heading for the Dromore position.

  Jacob cursed and fired at Castillo, but his bullet harmlessly chipped pine bark. The big Mexican had swung away from the line of fire and was galloping back the way he’d come.

  A few more shots rang out, then the firing stopped and the vaqueros cheered a victory that was no victory at all.

  Castillo regrouped his men quickly and they charged along the riverbank where there was room to ride four abreast.

  With Patrick safely in the cover of the trees, the Dromore men, all of them on foot, spread out and met Castillo’s charge with steady gunfire. Suddenly the bank of the Pecos was a kicking, screaming tangle of downed horses and men.

  Jacob and Shawn, standing shoulder to shoulder, pumped bullets into the swerving, confused Mexicans. It was close work that gave the advantage to men skilled with the Colt.

  Castillo, not being a strategist, had ignored the age-old rule that light cavalry should never charge skilled infantry in an entrenched position, and he was paying the price.

  A young Mexican, bloodied from head to toe, staggered out of the confused knot of dying horses and riders and walked toward Jacob, his hands in the air as he screamed for mercy.

  In a fight, like Luther Ironside who had tutored him, Jacob was not a merciful man. He shot down the Mexican and stepped over the body as he sought to close the range between him and the yelling Castillo.

  The vaquero who’d been sent upstream reappeared. He galloped though the river shallows, levering and firing his Winchester from the shoulder. He was good with a long gun. His bullets tore into the Mexicans.

  Watching, Jacob figured the man killed two or three before he was hit and tumbled from the saddle. It was enough.

  The Mexicans lost half their number before all they wanted was to get the hell out of there, away from the hammering Dromore guns. Álvaro Castillo was nowhere in sight.

  Jacob caught up a riderless horse and swung into the saddle.

  “Jake, where you headed?” Shawn yelled.

  “Going after Castillo.”

  Shawn yelled something else that Jacob didn’t hear. He was already cantering along the riverbank, his mount sidestepping dead men.

  A couple of minutes later, Jacob saw where the opposite bank was broken down, probably by cattle. He drew rein and looked again. It was as good a spot as any for a man to leave the Pecos and head north into the desolate canyon country.

  He decided to play the odds and splashed across the shallows, stopping at a wide sandbar. A single set of fresh tracks had been made only moments before, and the odds were about ten to one they were left by the Mexican.

  The stirred-up mud silted the river as Jacob rode across the sandbar and into free-flowing water again. He drew rein and glanced downstream. Nothing moved but the wind. The wide sky was pale blue, tufted with only a few white clouds. There was no sound but the gentle eddy of the current along the riverbank.

  Not by nature a gambling man, Jacob tossed the dice and rode out of the Pecos, immediately picking up the tracks of the fleeing Mexican, whoever he was. The tracks pointed north.

  Ahead of Jacob rose a wall of red sandstone rock, higher than the topmost point of the Dromore roof.

  Was Castillo, or one of his men, holed up at its base? Was there just one Mexican, or had he met up with more of his compadres?

  Jacob checked the loads in his Colt and thumbed a round into the empty chamber under the hammer. He holstered his gun and moved forward warily, his eyes moving constantly.

  As he rode closer, he saw that the side of the cliff formed one wall of a narrow arroyo, the other only sixty feet away. There, the rock was more weathered and much lower, a few stunted juniper growing close to its base. After casting around for a while, he picked up the tracks again and saw that the rider, Castillo or someone else, had entered the canyon.

  Aware that mounted he was a big target, Jacob swung out of the saddle and led the horse into the break. The arroyo narrowed as he walked through its cool shade, and at one point the walls closed in on him so tight the stirrups scraped against the sandstone on both sides.

  The ground under his feet was slowly rising. During the spring melt, water rushed through the arroyo at a tremendous rate. But it was dry, the bottom a mix of sand and pebble and here and there cat claw cacti were rooted into cracks in the rock.

  After the best part of a mile, the arroyo rose at a higher angle and Jacob emerged onto the flat top of a mesa. After the coolness of the arroyo, the sun was again hot on his shoulders, but a constant wind blew. It bent the branches of a few dark junipers and stirred the pale orange blossoms of scattered clumps of globe mallow.

  He scanned the mesa with extreme care. It was possible a dangerous man did not wish to be seen.

  He walked his horse forward. On all sides of him, the mesa stretched away, flat as a billiard table. Borne on rising winds from the flat, the air smelled of sage and pine and Jacob was almost sure he caught the acrid scent of gunpowder from the battle at the Pecos.

  He stopped, movement flickering at the corner of his left eye.

  A shadow cast on the mesa as a rider rode past a stand of juniper then emerged from behind them. He was a big Mexican, wearing a wide sombrero. Belts of rifle ammunition made a gleaming X on his chest. It could only be one man.

  Álvaro Castillo!

  Jacob drew his gun and waited.

  Castillo was oblivious. His head was bent as his eyes searched the mesa rim. Fearful of going back the way he’d come, the bandit was hunting a way down.

  Jacob judged the distance between himself and Castillo at fifty yards, too far for revolver work. He’d never been much of a hand with a long gun and had no confidence in his ability with a Winchester. He had to draw the Mexican closer.

  “Hey, Castillo!” Jacob yelled.

  Startled, the Mexican’s hand dropped for his gun, but he thought better of it and called, “Ah, my good, good friend. You have come to look for Álvaro, no?”

  “I’ve come to kill you, Castillo.”

  “No, it cannot be. We are very good friends and a friend does not kill a friend.” Castillo pushed his horse in Jacob’s direction.

  Twenty yards away he drew rein and swung out of the saddle. The Mexican grinned, his teeth very white against his dark skin. He waved a hand. “Hell of a country, is it not, my friend?”

  “For some,” Jacob said.

  “I am a poor man, and I only tried to take a little of what you own,” Castillo said. “Surely you don’t blame me for that?”

  “I’m going to kill you for that, Castillo, and for what you did to my brother.”

  “But Patrick is fine. He is my good friend. Ask him yourself and he will tell you that this is so. I brought him food, I gave him whiskey, and he himself said to me, ‘Álvaro, you are my ver’ good friend.’”

  Jacob holstered his gun. “It’s even, Castillo. Make your play.”

  “No. No guns, my friend,” the Mexican said. “I have tequila in my saddlebags and we will drink and then part ways. Soon, I will be gone from this part of the country for good and you can forget you were ever Álvaro’s friend.”

  Castillo made to reach into his saddlebags and Jacob said, “I see your hand vanish from my sight, I’ll gun you right where you stand.”

  The Mexican swung on Jacob, his face black with fury. “Damn you, gringo, now you are not my friend. I don’t like you anymore.”

  “Skin it, Castillo. Or die like a yellow-bellied coward right where you stand.”

  “Aye. I have no cartridges in my gun. I fired them all away at the river.”

  “Then that’s the breaks.” Jacob drew and Castillo, so fast his hand blurred, almost matched him.

  Gunfights were measured in seconds. The Mexican was just a half-second slower than Jacob O’Brien, and it cost him his life.