MEXICAN STANDOFF
by
B. J. LANAGAN


* #5 in the series
* From the creators of Longarm, Jove's most popular western series

Jove Books New York Copyright (C) 1998 by Jove Publications, Inc.  All
rights reserved.

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Inc. A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author Printing
history Jove edition / April 1998

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DON'T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING
GROUP

THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen,
outlaws, and ladies.  They called him ... the Gunsmith.

LONGARM by Tabor Evans The popular long-running series about U.S.
Deputy Marshal Long--his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

Slocum by Jake Logan Today's longest-running action Western.  John
Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan An action-packed series by the creators
of Longarm!  The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of
cutthroats ever assembled--Quantrill's Raiders.

1

A hot, dry wind moved through the canyon, pushing before it a billowing
puff of red dust.  The cloud of dust lifted high and spread out wide,
making it look as if there were blood on the sun.

They were headed for the town of Afton, where, they had been told, they
would find a woman named Cat Clay.

"SHE WAS TOOK FROM ME, AGAINST HER WILL, BY SOME outlaws," Marcus Kirby
told them.  "For a long time I didn't know where she was, but I just
heard from a fella who says that he seen her workin' in a saloon over
to Afton.  I'll give you boys two hunnert and fifty dollars apiece to
go over there and get her.  Fifty dollars now ... and the rest when you
bring her to me."

"You say she's working in a saloon?"  Win asked.

Yep."

If that's the case, she's probably not being held against her will."

Marcus shook his head.  "No, I don't reckon she is," he admitted.

"Not now, anyways.  But the thing is, I figure that over the last year
...

that's how long it's been since she was took ... she's prob'ly had to
do some things she ain't proud of, you know, to stay alive.  I reckon
she thinks I won't be a-wantin' her anymore.  Only, that ain't true.  I
want you to tell her that.  And tell her that, no matter what she's
done, I forgive her."

"What if she doesn't want to come back?"

"Then I want you to bring her back anyway.  That's what I'm payin' you
boys for."

"You might be forgiving her," Win said.  "But if we bring her back by
force ... she may not be all that forgiving of you."

"You just take your money and do your job.  I'll worry about that."

"All right, give us the money.  If she hates your guts when we bring
her back, it's no skin off our ass," Win said.

Normally, neither Win nor Joe would give a hoot in hell about Marcus
Kirby's love life.  But the two hundred fifty dollars apiece he offered
them came at just the right time.  The brothers were down to their last
few dollars, so despite their initial dislike of the slimy little man
who hired them, they accepted the job.

THEY HAD STARTED ON THEIR JOURNEY THE DAY BEFORE and, after two days of
hard riding, were figuring to make Afton before nightfall.

"Hey, Win," Joe called out, shortly after they rode into the canyon.

"Hold up a minute, will you?  I gotta take a leak."

It was a peaceful moment.  Win got off to adjust the cinch on his
saddle while Joe tried to direct his stream to knock a fly off a
mesquite branch.

The peace was shattered when Win heard a bullet pop by his ear, then
ricochet off a nearby rock to fill the little canyon with its whine.

"Son of a bitch!  Someone's shooting at us!"  Win shouted.

Win and Joe Coulter had been under fire many times before ...

beginning with their days of riding with Quantrill during the Civil
War.

Because of their experience, they didn't have to waste time asking what
was going on, nor looking at each other in confusion.  They knew
exactly what was going on, and they knew what to do about it.

Simultaneously, they pulled their rifles out of the saddle sheaths
while slapping their horses on the rump to send them out of the line of
fire.

"He's up there," Win said, pointing to the top of the denuded wall of
the red mesa.  When Joe looked in the direction Win was pointing, he
saw a little puff of smoke drifting away.

"Yeah, I see him," he said.

Even as they were looking, there was another puff of smoke, followed by
the rifle's report, then, a fraction of a second later, another bullet
striking rock near them.

"There's only one way we're going to get him out of there," Win said.

"I know," Joe answered.  "We're going to have to go after him."

"One of us needs to get to the rocks over there," Win said, pointing to
a collection of boulders which were located near the base of the
cliff.

"One of us?"

"That's the best place to provide cover for whichever one of us is
going to climb up the side of the cliff."

"You know I can't climb up that wall.  I'm afraid of heights," Joe
said.

"It's your choice, Little Brother.  Climb up the side of the cliff
...

or haul your ass across the open to get to those rocks over there."

Glaring at his brother, Joe got up, took a deep breath, then ran toward
the rocks in question.  "Ooooooh shit!"  he yelled as the bullets
popped and whined, kicking up dirt all around him.  Finally, with a
dive that covered the last five yards, Joe made it to the rocks.

Once behind the rocks, Joe turned to look back toward his brother,
giving him a little wave to let him know that he was all right.  Win
nodded, and Joe, now in position, began firing up toward whoever had
been shooting at them.

Win looked around, then saw a possible way up the side of the canyon
wall.  He followed it with his eyes and saw that it led all the way to
the top.  Except for a few gaps, it offered cover and concealment for
anyone who might climb it.  It was obvious that the assailant hadn't
noticed it, or he wouldn't have taken the position he now occupied, for
if someone successfully negotiated the climb, he would be on top of the
mesa ...

behind the shooter.

Win began to climb.  Although the route had looked passable from the
ground, climbing it proved to be very difficult.  He'd been at it for
nearly half an hour, and it didn't seem as if he had gained so much as
an inch.  However, when he looked back toward the ground he could see
that he was making progress, for by now he was dangerously high.

All the time he was climbing he could hear the steady exchange of
gunfire between his brother and whoever it was that attacked them.

Win clung to the side of the mountain and moved only when he had a
secure handhold or foothold ... tiny though it might be.  Sweat poured
into his eyes and he grew thirsty with the effort, but still he
climbed.  Then he came to a complete stop.  There was no place to go
from here.  He hadn't noticed this gap from his observation on the
ground.

"Damn," he swore under his breath, looking around.  "Now what?"

From his position behind the rocks, Joe saw that his brother had
stopped climbing.  At first, he wondered why, then he realized that Win
must have run out of hand- and footholds.  He realized something else,
as well.  Though much of Win's climb had been shielded by a long,
vertical spur of rock, he was no longer shielded.  If whoever it was
shooting at them happened to glance over and look in the right place
now, he would see Win.  He would not only see him ... he would have a
very easy and totally unrestricted shot at him.  And, because Win was
having to hang on with both hands and both feet, there would be
absolutely nothing Win could do to defend himself.

"Big Brother, you do get yourself in some terrible fixes," Joe said as
he fired again, hoping to keep the assailant sufficiently occupied so
that he wouldn't notice Win.

Win decided that his only hope was in backtracking several feet, then
starting up one of the other chutes.  This he did, and though the going
was very difficult, he was managing to climb again.  Above him was
nothing but the uninviting rock-face of the cliff.  Below him was a
sheer drop of more than 150 feet to the rocky canyon floor.

Win continued his climb, working hard to find the handholds and tiny
crevices by which he could advance.  Sweat poured into his eyes and
slackened the palms of his hands, but still he climbed.  He reached for
a small slate outcropping, but as he put his weight on it, it failed.

With a sickening sensation in his stomach, he felt himself falling.

His stomach leaped into his throat as he started to fall, and,
reflexively, he reached out to grab the first thing he could.  It was a
juniper tree.  With one hand, he managed to grab the tree and stop his
fall.  He was slammed against the wall, feeling the rocks scrape and
tear at his flesh.  He flailed against the wall with his other hand
until he managed to get a hold.

After catching his breath, Win began to climb again.  After two minutes
of climbing it began to get a little easier, then easier still, until
finally he reached a ledge which showed signs of having been a trail at
one time, possibly a trail which had existed until erosion took the
bottom part of it away.  The trail improved and widened until he could
walk upright.  Shortly after that, he made it to the top.

WIN SAW THE ASSAILANT THEN, NO MORE THAN TWENTY-FIVE yards away from
him, peering down toward the canyon floor, totally unaware that Win had
reached the top.

"Looking' for someone?"  Win asked casually.

"What the hell?"  the gunman gasped, spinning around.  "How'd you get
up here?  They ain't no way a mountain goat coulda come up."

"I'm not a mountain goat," Win said.  "I'm a Missouri mule."

The two men stood on top of the mesa, silhouetted against the brilliant
blue sky.  Because the assailant had been using his rifle, both now had
their pistols holstered, and for a moment they formed an eerie tableau,
a moment frozen in eternity.

"Hell, let's do it," the assailant said, his hand dipping for his gun
even as he spoke.

The assailant's gun didn't even break leather before Win's gun was out
and booming.  Win's bullet hit him in the chest, and the assailant
stood there for a moment, looking on in total surprise.  He tried to
take a step forward, lost his balance, then fell.

Holstering his pistol, Win moved quickly to him, then stood, looking
down at him.

"Why'd you ambush us?"  he asked.

"I seen that fella back in town give you some money to bring Cat back
to him.  And I know there ain't no way the Boss Man is going' to let
her go, so I figured I might as well have the money for myself."  He
coughed, and a little trickle of blood came from his mouth.

"Who's the Boss Man?"

"You try 'n bring that girl back, you'll find out who the Boss Man is,"
the assailant said.

"Win!  Win, you all right?"  Win heard Joe's voice calling anxiously.

Win raised up, then walked over to the edge to call down.  "I'm all
right, Joe.  Round up our horses.  I'll be right down."

Win walked back over to the assailant.  "I'm going' to have to leave
you here," he said.  "Anybody in town you want me to tell about you?"

Even as he was asking the question, though, he knew it would go
unanswered.  The would-be robber was dead.

2

When the boys reached Afton they boarded their horses, then went across
the street to the hotel.

"The way I figure it, folks aren't likely to be all that cooperative
with someone who comes in and just starts asking a lot of questions,"
Win said.  "I think we should take our time and just look around for a
while."

"You're probably right," Joe agreed.  "What say we start by having a
little supper?"

"All right," Win agreed.

They had supper in the nearest restaurant, then, while Joe had a second
dessert, Win decided to take a walk around the town.

It was dark now, and the street was lighted only by spills of yellow
from the open doors and windows of the saloons and cantinas.  High
overhead, the stars winked brightly, while over a distant mesa the moon
hung like a large, silver wheel.  He could hear music: the thrum of
guitars; a lilting song in a language he couldn't understand; and from
somewhere, the single, clarion sound of a trumpet.

When Win reached the end of the street, he turned and started back.

That was when two men with knives jumped from the shadows between the
buildings and attacked.  He responded quickly, avoiding one blade, but
catching the tip of the other in his side.  One inch closer and he
would have been disemboweled.

The knife wielders were good, but both were wearing white peon shirts
and trousers.  Because of that, they were easy to see--and to avoid,
despite the darkness of the street.  One of them moved in to try to
finish Win off, but Win dropped to the ground, twisted and thrust his
feet out, catching the attacker on his chest, driving him back several
feet.  The other one moved in, keeping Win off his feet and away from
his gun.

The assailants were skilled and agile.  But they were small, giving Win
a considerable advantage in strength.  Win sent a booted foot whistling
toward one of them, catching the man in the groin.  Then he lunged
upward and rammed a hard fist into the teeth of the other man.  He felt
the man's teeth loosen and crack.

The assailant screamed, then dropped his knife and reached up to his
mouth.  The other man ran to his partner and pulled on him, breaking
off the fight.  They ran around the corner and disappeared into the
shadows before Win could get a good look at them.

"Mister," a pained voice called from the shadows of a nearby
building.

"Help me, mister."

"Where are you?"

"Over here, on the ground."

Disregarding his own wound, Win moved into the shadows.  There he saw a
man on his hands and knees, trying to rise.  Win helped him to his
feet.

"Much obliged," the man said.  "Those two jumped me and woulda robbed
me if you hadn't come along to pull 'em off me."

Win chuckled dryly.  "Hate to disappoint you, mister," he said.  "But I
didn't pull 'em off you.  They jumped me."

"They musta thought you was comin' to my rescue," the man said.  "And,
whether you meant to do it or not, it all comes out the same.  Could
you ... could you help me back to the hotel?"

"Sure, be glad to," Win said, taking the man's arm around his shoulder
and walking with him for support.

"The name's Clark, John Henry Clark," the wounded man said.  "I own the
Tumbling C Ranch.  Ever heard of it?"

"Can't say as I have," Win admitted.

"It's some west of here.  I come into town from time to time for
supplies, and the two Meres must've seen me over at the general store
when I was puttin' in my order.  I guess they figured that if I had
enough money to pay for the supplies, I would have enough money to
steal."

"Do you?"

"Have enough money to steal, you mean?"

"Yes.  Because if you do, and you have it on you, part of this is your
own fault."

"It doesn't take much money to tempt someone like those two galoots,"
John Henry replied.  Win noticed that his question had gone unanswered,
and he smiled.  Perhaps the man wasn't as incautious as it first
seemed.

"By the way," John Henry continued, "if you're interested in work, I'd
be glad to sign you on."

"Thanks," Win said.  "But right now, I've got a job."

"Doin' what?"

"Looking' for someone.  A man has paid my brother and me to find a
woman and take her back to him.  The woman's name is Cat Clay.  She's
supposed to work in one of the saloons here.  Ever heard of her?"

John Henry shook his head.  "No, I can't say as I have," he said.

"Anyway, I have to confess, I'm not cut out to be a cowhand," Win
added.

"No, I don't expect you would be.  At least, you don't have that kind
of look about you," John Henry said.  "That makes it all the more
probable that you might be just what I'm looking for."

"Now I am curious.  You said you own a ranch.  If you aren't looking
for a cowhand, just what are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for someone who isn't afraid of a fight and who is good
with guns."

"Those kind of men can be dangerous," Win warned.

"It would take that kind of a man.  The job I'm wanting him to do is
dangerous," John Henry said.  "Ah, here is the hotel.  Again, I thank
you for helping me."

"Glad I could be of service."

John Henry wanted to go the last few yards on his own, so Win let him
do it, though he did follow him into the lobby.

"Father!"  a woman's voice called, and Win looked up to see a beautiful
young woman standing halfway down the stairs.  She was tall and slender
with blond hair and blue eyes.  She hurried across the lobby to her
father.

"What happened?  Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," John Henry said.  "Thanks to this gentleman," he added,
pointing to Win.  "Two Mexican hombres jumped me, intent on cutting' my
throat and robbin' me, I suppose.  But this fella come along and run
them off.  Mister ... uh, you know, I don't believe I caught your
name."

"Coulter.  Win Coulter."

"Mr.  Coulter, this is my daughter, Rose.  Rose, meet Mr.  Coulter."

"I'm very obliged to you for saving my father, Mr.  Coulter."

Win smiled.  "Well, Miss Clark, much as I would like for you to think
I'm a hero, I have to confess that I was drawn into the fracas.  I was
just walking around, polite as you please.  They jumped me before I
even saw them."

"And yet you beat them off?  That's all the more reason to ... oh ...

you're hurt!"

Win didn't realize it, but by now he made quite a sight.  He was
holding his hand over his belly wound, but the blood was seeping around
his fingers.  That had been going on for several minutes and, by now,
his cotton shirt and denim trousers were soaked with blood.

"Where are you staying?  Do you have a room?"  Rose asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Win said.  He waved his hand and the blood shined red in
the soft light of the hotel lobby.  "I got one right here in the
hotel."

"Go up to your room, quickly," Rose said.  "What number is it?  I'll
get some things and come tend to your wound."

"It's number twelve," Win said.  "And it might be a good idea to lie
down at that."  As Win started up the stairs, he discovered that the
wound was bothering him more than he'd first thought.  He had to stop
halfway up and lean against the wall to get his breath.  When he went
on, he left a stain of blood on the wall.

Once inside his room, he ripped the bedsheet in two and wrapped it
around his side, pressing it tightly against his wound.  When the crude
bandage was in place, he lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and fell
asleep.

Win opened his eyes.  Something had awakened him and he lay very
still.

The doorknob turned, and Win was up, reaching for the gun that lay on
the table by his bed.

He moved as quickly as a cat, forgetting the wound in his stomach.

But the wound didn't let him forget, and he sucked in a gasp of air
through clenched teeth as a bolt of pain shot through him.

Moving despite the pain, Win stepped to the side of the door, while at
the same time cocking his pistol.  Naked from the waist up, he felt the
night air on his skin.  His senses were alert, his body alive with
readiness.

Win could hear someone breathing on the other side of the door.  A thin
shaft of hall light shot underneath.  From somewhere in the night, a
guitar played and someone laughed.  He got a whiff of the scent of
lilacs then, the same scent he had noticed earlier, and he smiled as he
remembered the girl's promise to come see to his wound.

"Miss Clark?"  he called.

"Yes.  Are you awake?"  Rose called back.

Win eased the hammer down on the pistol, then opened the door to let a
wide bar of light spill into the room.  The hall lantern was
back-lighting the thin cotton dress the girl was wearing, and he could
see her body in shadow, beneath the cloth.

"Come on in," Win invited, stepping back to let her inside.  He lit the
candle on his table and a golden bubble of light illuminated the
room.

Rose held up some bandages and a jar of salve.  "I have come to tend to
your wound, if you'll let me."

"All right," Win agreed.  He took away the bandage he had made from the
bedsheet, then lay back on his bed and loosened his belt.  He slid his
trousers down a few inches, exposing the entire length of the wound,
while at the same time showing the top of a thick bush of pubic hair.

"Oh, I, uh ..."  Rose said, turning her head away in embarrassment.

But even as she did so, Win noticed that she sucked in a quick gasp of
air.

He had seen that reaction in women before, and he knew what it meant.

"How does it look?"  Win asked.

"I don't know," Rose answered.  She was still looking away.

Win chuckled.  "I don't suppose you would know.  You can't tell without
looking," he said.  He took her arm and pulled her down so that she was
sitting on the bed beside him, then he put his hand to her face and
turned it toward him, feeling the heat in her skin.  He looked deep
into her eyes then, and saw curiosity and want, mixed with a touch of
shame and fear.

"My wound is down there," he said.

Rose held his gaze for just a moment longer, then she looked down at
his wound, at his flat stomach, then, gently, she reached out and
touched him.  Her fingers felt cool.

"I had better clean it," she said.  She walked over to the chifforobe
where a basin and a pitcher of water stood.  Pouring water into the
basin, she brought it back to the bed and began gently bathing his
stomach.

Within a few minutes she had washed away all the dried blood and was
now looking at the cut.  It was thin and clean.

"What do you think?"  Win asked.

She put her hand back on his stomach and left it there.  The feel of it
set Win's blood boiling.

"The, uh, wound is really not that bad," she said.  "The bleeding has
stopped and it's clean.  A little salve is all it needs."

"Yeah," Win said.  "But that isn't all I need."

"What ... what do you mean?"

"You're a woman, full grown, Rose Clark.  And I've been around enough
women to know what you are thinking now.  I just want you to know that
I'm thinking the same thing."

"Oh, but, sir, I assure you, you are wrong!"  Rose stammered.

"Then you admit that you know what I'm thinking?"

"No!  I ... I don't have any idea!"

Win chuckled.  "If you don't know what I'm thinking, then how do you
know I'm wrong?"

"I ... I don't know," Rose admitted.  "You are confusing me."

Win let go of her arm.  "All right, I don't want to confuse you.  But,
if I am wrong, get up and walk out of this room."

Rose sat there for a long moment, neither moving nor speaking.

"Well?"  Win said.

"I ... I find myself quite unable to move," Rose replied in a quiet,
frightened voice.  It was obvious to Win that she was more frightened
of herself than she was of him.

Win reached up to touch her again, and he let his hand rest lightly on
her neck.

"Maybe you've never had a man and you are wondering what it's like," he
said.  "Or maybe you have, and you remember how good it was and you
want to do it again, only a proper lady doesn't do such a thing just
because she has a hankering for it."

"Please," Rose said, her breath coming in short, audible gasps.  "You
mustn't talk like this."

"Why not?  I've always been a man who talked straight.  We never saw
each other before, we'll probably never see each other again.  That
makes it simple, doesn't it?"

Rose didn't take her hand away from his skin.  Instead, she moved it
back and forth, gently stroking him, even letting her fingers dip
daringly into the hair.  Win unbuttoned his trousers and then slid his
pants the rest of the way down.  By now he was totally erect, and when
it sprang up, she reacted with another gasp.

Win put his hand up behind her head and pulled her mouth down to his.

He kissed her lightly at first, then harder as he felt her hand move
boldly to the shaft of his penis.

Win began to undo the buttons of her dress.  With her free hand she
helped unfasten the bodice.  The combination of light from the dim
candle and the silver moon played across her flesh, disclosing small
but well-formed breasts and nipples which were pink and erect with
desire.

Rose slipped the garment from her body, then stood naked in the soft
light.  Her smooth flesh gleamed.  Her legs were shapely and strong,
and met at a luxurious growth of blond hair.  He held his arms out to
her and she went to him, kissing him deeply, pressing her naked flesh
against his, pushing her hard little nipples into his chest.  Her
fingernails raked down his back, across his buttocks, onto his
scrotum.

Win moved lower with his mouth, along her jawline to her ear, where he
made her gasp by sticking his tongue inside it.  He trailed his tongue
down her throat to her shoulder, then down across the soft, smooth
slope of her breast to touch it to the nipple.  He took it gently
between his teeth and began to suck.

"Oh, you were right," Rose said.  "This is what I wanted."  Her hand
grasped him, and she squeezed, working up and down the shaft.

She kissed his forehead, then his hair.  A moment later she was on the
bed beside him, then under him, offering herself to him.  With a quick,
smooth movement, Win was over her.  She guided him into her.

Win withheld his thrust for a moment to kiss her again.  Then he stuck
his tongue into her mouth at the same time he pushed himself into her
velvet cleft.  She let out a little whimper, but thrust her hips up as
hard as she could, taking him into her hot, pulsing tunnel.

She flailed about wildly beneath him, gyrating her hips, forcing him to
stay with her, to ride her like a bucking bronco.  He thrust all the
way in, then pulled out and rammed it home again while she squeezed him
with tiny but intense muscle spasms.

"Oh ... oh ... I feel so ..."  she said as her pleasurable feelings
began approaching a crescendo.  She cried out in sharp little moans as
she crashed over the peak of her first orgasm, then moved quickly in
search of another.  Lightning struck her a second time, then a third,
and she shuddered with the ecstasy of it.

Win stayed with her.  The fire in her body spread to his and he felt
the sweet-hot boiling of his own blood as he shot his seed deep into
her.

3

Outside, in the darkness of the town, Win heard a rider pass, his
horse's hoofbeats ringing hollowly on the quiet street.  From a nearby
saloon he heard a man's low, rumbling voice, followed by the laughter
of several patrons, a woman's high-pitched trill being the most
discernible.

On the prairie he heard a coyote howl.

"Oh," Rose said quietly.  "Oh, my, what you must think of me!"

"I think you are quite a lady," Win said.

"You must believe me ... I've never done anything like this before."

"I know."

"I'm telling the truth.  I've never ..."

"Shhh," Win said, holding his finger to her lips to gently interrupt
her.  "It doesn't matter.  Remember?"

"Oh ... yes, I suppose you are right," she said.  She had been lying
beside him, but she got up and walked over to the window to look out
onto the street.  He could see her clearly in the soft, golden light of
the single candle and the silver glow of the moon.  Her breasts were in
bold relief, her nipples erect, but the lower part of her body was
shrouded in shadow.  She pulled the curtain to one side and looked
out.

"What are you looking for out there?"  Win asked.

"I'm looking for all my tomorrows," she answered.  She turned away from
the window.  "Don't you ever look for your tomorrows, Mr.  Coulter?"

"Never."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have any tomorrows," Win said easily.

Twenty miles southwest of Afton was a small settlement called Guzman.

Guzman was significant only because it was the first settlement on the
American side of the border.  It existed to serve the ranching
community nearby.  At one time there had been many ranches, but now
there were only three.

One was John Henry Clark's ranch, the Tumbling C. John Henry's ranch
was a normal-sized ranch, old and established.  It had fit in well with
all the neighboring ranches, that is, when there had been neighboring
ranches.

The second ranch was a newer, spreading conglomerate called Inferno.

Inferno was owned by a man everyone called "The Boss," and it had been
cobbled together of smaller ranches whose owners had sold out to him.

Its acreage had also been swollen by the Boss's illegal, though
unchallenged, practice of filing homestead claims under fictitious
names on several tracts, then "selling" them to himself.

The result was that Inferno was now nearly as large, in terms of
acreage, as the nearby ranch of Trinidad, a vast estate, unchanged
since it was given to the family of Don Juan de la Montoya by a Spanish
Land Grant Trinidad.  Of course, Trinidad, being old and established,
was a much better piece of property.  It could boast proven wells;
large, comfortable houses; sturdy barns; stables; and an extensive
network of line shacks.

The Boss Man had made a few attempts to buy Trinidad, but Montoya had
turned him down.  The result was an intense enmity between the Boss Man
and Montoya.  John Henry Clark, and the Tumbling C, were caught in the
middle.

When Montoya was born, Rancho Trinidad was in Mexico, thus, Juan
Montoya was a Mexican citizen.  But he was also a citizen of the United
States by virtue of the fact that all of New Mexico had, since his
birth, been ceded to the United States.  Although they were now
American citizens, the Montoya family still followed Spanish customs of
the old ways.  Because of that, Juan's younger brother, Esteban,
traveled from his home in Buenaventura to visit Juan and secure his
brother's blessings on his upcoming marriage.  Estaban brought several
of his servants; his bride-to-be, seventeen-year-old Carlotta Sanchez;
and her servants with him.

In most of the towns along the border, the Americans and the Mexicans
got along well, but in Guzman, the enmity that existed between Inferno
and Trinidad spilled over into the town as well.

Guzman was a village of two dozen adobe buildings, scattered around a
dusty plaza, baking under the hot New Mexico sun.  Fully one quarter of
the buildings in town were drinking establishments, called cantinas by
the Mexicans, and saloons by the Americans.

Inferno riders, most of whom had come over from the ranches that had
been bought out by the Boss Man, frequented a saloon called the
Independence Saloon when they were in town.  Although the outside of
the Independence looked like every other building in Guzman, inside the
owner made every effort to try to make it look as "unMexican" as he
could.  The focal point of everyone who entered the Independence Saloon
was the large painting of George Washington, which hung behind the
bar.

The saloon served only beer and bourbon.  A sign on the wall read:

ANYONE WHO ORDERS TEQUILA WILL BE PUT OUT OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT.

The Independence Saloon was the only place in town that had a piano,
and it was grinding away as a handful of Inferno men sat around a
table, talking.

"They say this Esteban Montoya is real good with a gun.  Makes a body
wonder what he's really comin' here for."

"It's just like they say it is.  He's comin' here to get his brother's
say-so to get married."

"Don't seem to me like a full-growd man ought to have to ask his
brother's permission just to get married."

"Yeah, well, that's the way it is with them Mexicans."

"Wonder what the girl looks like?"

"She's a real good-looker.  I seen her an' her family last Sunday
mornin' when they come into town to go to church."

"Damn, Shorty!  You was in church?"

Everyone laughed.

"No," Shorty answered.  "I was just headin' back to the ranch from a
night of drinkin'."  Again, everyone laughed.

Rancho Trinidad

Don Juan de la Montoya was fifty-four years old.  His brother, Esteban,
was forty-three.  Juan had married late in life but was now enjoying
the fruits of a family.  He had a beautiful wife and four children,
ranging in ages from five to thirteen years.  Esteban had never been
married before but was about to take a bride who was many years younger
than he.  That was not unusual in the Montoya family.

Family tradition was not the only reason Esteban was visiting
Trinidad.

Esteban knew that his brother would need help if the war that everyone
was talking about really did begin.  Esteban, who lived on family
holdings south of the border, was a provisional colonel in the Mexican
Federal Reserve.  He had recently been involved in a confrontation with
the Sonora Bandidos.  During the encounter, he'd fought with such honor
that he was awarded a medal by the Mexican government.

Juan and Esteban had just ridden to the top of a rocky mesa.  From this
vantage point they could see thousands of acres of Trinidad.  Most of
the land was dry, baked brown under the relentless summer sun, but a
long thin line of green snaked its way across the valley floor.  The
green was the vegetation that grew alongside the Pecos River, where the
cattle congregated both for water and food.  Because of the scarcity of
grass and water in this part of the country, it required three times as
many acres to support cattle here as back in Texas.  That was why the
ranches had to be so large.

"So, my brother, it has been a long time since you were here, at
Trinidad.  What do you think of it now?"

"I think it is magnifico," Esteban said enthusiastically.  "I think it
may be the ... uhn!"  Esteban suddenly put his hand to his chest.  When
he pulled it away, it was smeared with blood.  "Juan?"  he asked in a
pained, questioning voice.

Neither man had heard the first shot, and thus the rifle bullet that
buried itself deep in Esteban's chest was a surprise.  Juan heard the
second shot, not only the report of the rifle, but the little thudding
sound it made when it too hit Esteban.  Esteban reeled for a second,
then tumbled out of his saddle.  Juan pulled out his own rifle, then
leaped from his saddle and knelt beside his brother.

"Esteban!"  Juan shouted.  He put his hand on his brother's shoulder
and shook him, but he got no response.  Then, sadly, he reached up to
close Esteban's eyes.  His brother was dead.

As great as Juan's sorrow over his brother's death, even greater was
his anger and thirst for revenge.  He ran to the back of the mesa and
saw someone riding off in the direction of Inferno.  Whoever it was was
well out of rifle range, but in frustration Juan raised his rifle and
fired at him anyway.

Inferno Ranch

There were three cowboys inside the small adobe line shack.  One was
asleep on the bunk; the other two were sitting across a barrelhead from
each other, playing cards.  They were playing for matches only, but
that didn't lessen the intensity of their game.  When one of them took
the pot with a pair of aces, the other one complained.

"You son of a bitch!  Where'd you get that ace?"  His oath, however,
was softened by a burst of laughter.

"Don't you know?  I took it from Shorty's boot while he was asleep."

"Does Shorty keep an ace in his boot?"

"You think he don't?  I never know'd him to do anythin' honest when he
could cheat."

"That's the truth.  But Decker is just as bad."

"So's Curly."

The cards were raked in, the deck shuffled, then dealt again.

"Who you think shot that Mexican?"  the dealer asked.

"More'n likely it was Loomis Tucker."

"You ask me, it was awful dumb of him.  Them Mexicans over on Trinidad
ain't going' to just let that slide by like didn't nothin' happen."

"What's got me is why the Boss Man ain't done nothin' to Tucker."

"Hell, I know why.  It's 'cause the Boss Man wants a range war with
Montoya.  Wouldn't surprise me none, but what the Boss Man put Tucker
up to it."

"Why would anyone actually want a range war?"

"'Cause he figures when it's all over, he'll wind up ownin'
Trinidad."

"You're just talkin'."

"No, I ain't just talkin' neither.  Last week one of Montoya's riders
brought back four of our cows that had strayed over onto their land.  I
thought it was real neighborly, but the Boss Man said I shoulda shot
'im.

He said havin' the cows with him was all the proof we needed that
they'd been stole."

The cowboy on the bunk spoke for the first time.  "Seems to me like you
boys should know by now to keep your mouths shut.  Whatever the Boss
Man's doin' don't got nothin' to do with us.  And, iffen I was you, I
wouldn't go accusin' Tucker neither.  Leastwise, not to his face."

"You think I'm scared of Tucker?  I could break that little pip-squeak
over my knees like a piece of kindlin' wood."

"Hell, any of us could, if we could ever catch the little son of a
bitch without his gun.  Onliest thing is, he has that gun with 'im all
the time.  He even has it with him when he goes to take a shit."

The others laughed.

At that moment, four riders, wearing sombreros and serapes, stopped on
a little hill overlooking the Inferno line shack, then ground-tied
their mounts about thirty yards behind them.  They moved to the edge of
the hill at a crouch, then looked down toward the little building.

The leader gave the signal, and all four men raised their rifles.

"Shoot!"  the leader said, squeezing the trigger that sent out the
first bullet.

The dealer died instantly, a bullet coming through the window to crash
into the back of his head.  His partner went next, a bullet in his
chest.

Shorty, who was on the bunk, rolled onto the floor.  "Jesus!"  he
said.

"It's the Mexicans!"

"Shorty!"  the wounded man on the floor called.  "Shorty, I'm hit
bad!"

Shorty crawled over to the wounded man, then saw the blood on his
chest.  The wound was sucking air, and Shorty knew it would be over
shortly.  He put his hand on the wounded man's forehead.  That gesture
of comfort was Shorty's last mortal act, for the next bullet hit him
right between the eyes.  Less than a moment later, all three were
dead.

"You did what?"  Montoya asked in horror.

"We have taken revenge for the murder of our patron."

Montoya pinched the bridge of his nose and was silent for a long
time.

"It was not your place to do so," he finally said, speaking to the men
who had been in Esteban's employ and had come to New Mexico for the
happy event of a wedding, only to see their patren murdered.

"I know he was your brother, and perhaps you would have preferred to do
it yourself.  But, senor, he was our Caudillo and venganza was our
right and our duty."

"Venganza es de Dios," Montoya said.  "It is for God, not for man."

He sighed.

"I'm sorry if our action has displeased you, Senor Montoya."

"You killed three men," Montoya said.  "If I could be sure that one of
the three you killed was the one who murdered my brother, I would
gladly suffer any consequences from your action.  But we do not know
that.  They may well have been innocent men."

One of the vaqueros spit derisively.  "There are no innocent gringos,"
he insisted.

Still bowing his head, almost as if he were in prayer, Montoya
dismissed the four vaqueros who had taken matters into their own
hands.

"Go," Montoya said.  "Return to Mexico.  Vaya con Dios."

"Vaya con Dios," the leader of the group said.  They got on their
horses then rode away.  If it had been in their thoughts to depart as
heroes, the folly of that idea was vividly demonstrated now as the
working men and women of the ranch stood by in frightened silence.

"Juan, will there be much trouble now?"  Miguelina, Juan's wife,
asked.

"I don't know," Juan admitted.  "Perhaps, if there are no more acts of
vengeance, it will stop here.  But we must, at all times, be on
guard."

4

A gentle breeze filtered through the stable.  It carried with it the
aromas of a new day: frying bacon and brewing coffee from the scores of
breakfasts that were being cooked, and the strong, though not
unpleasant, smell of horseflesh and fresh hay.

After Joe and Win had separated the night before, Joe had finished his
dessert, then made the rounds of the saloons in town.  He didn't see
Win again, but it didn't concern him.  He knew that Win was a big boy
and could take care of himself.  It was after midnight when Joe climbed
the stairs of the hotel.  But when he opened the door to the room and
saw that his brother had a woman with him, he quietly withdrew and
spent the night in the stable with their horses.  It wasn't that much
of an imposition--he had done it for Win in the past and his brother
had done it for him.

After rubbing his eyes, Joe stretched, then walked up to the open door
of the stable and stared out onto the street.

The town appeared as quiet this morning as it had been boisterous the
night before.  Merchants were already preparing for the day's commerce,
and the baskets of potatoes, onions, apples, and oranges that were
displayed on the porches in front of the stores shared space with ax
handles, grub hoes, and brooms.  A few doors down the street the
butcher was dressing a side of beef while a dozen dogs waited
expectantly for the scraps he was throwing them.  A freight wagon
lumbered slowly through the town.

Joe walked across the street, picking his way through the piles of
pungent horse apples, until he reached the restaurant that was next
door to the hotel.

The restaurant was a long, narrow building, with a line of tables
running along the right wall, and a counter stretching down the left
side.

Joe walked to the last table, and sat down.  An old Mexican woman came
to take his order.

"Si, senor?"

"You have American food, don't you?"  Joe asked.  "Bacon?  Eggs?

Flapjacks?"

"Si, senor."

"Well, I don't want any breakfast yet, I'm waitin' for my brother."

The woman turned and started back.

"Wait!"  Joe called.

She stopped.

"I will have some coffee while I'm waitin', though.  And maybe half a
dozen flapjacks, and a few strips of bacon.  That ought to hold me over
till he gets here.  Then I'll have breakfast."

Joe was just finishing his "appetizers" when Win arrived.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Joe said, washing down the last bite of
pancake with coffee.  "I don't know how much longer I would have been
able to wait.  I was about to go ahead and order breakfast."  He held
up his hand to get the waitress's attention.  "Them two breakfasts I
said I would be wantin'?  You can bring 'em now."

"Si, senor."

Win took his seat.  "First bed I've slept in for a while ... it was
sort of hard to get out of it this morning."

"Yeah, especially since you probably didn't sleep that much," Joe
suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"I saw the woman.  Why do you think I spent the night in the stable?"

"Oh.  Well, I'm sorry about that."

Joe chuckled.  "Don't be sorry.  Hell, I woulda done the same thing if
I'd had the chance."

The old woman set two steaming plates down in front of the boys.

"Any luck last night?"  Win asked as he began putting butter on his
biscuit.

"If I'd've had any luck, you think I woulda spent the night in a
barn?

No, Sir, I'd've had some pretty girl warmin' my bed too."

"I don't mean that kind of luck.  I mean, did you find out anything
about the woman we came here to find?  Cat Clay?"

"Oh," Joe replied.  "No.  Fact is, when I finally got around to asking
about her, I couldn't find anyone who had ever even heard of her."

Joe saw the front door to the restaurant open and a man came inside,
then stood there for a moment.  When he noticed the back table, he
started toward it.

"Someone's comin'," Joe said.

When Win turned toward the door, he saw John Henry Clark.  For a moment
he wondered if he was going to have to face repercussions over spending
the night with John Henry's daughter.  The genuine smile on John
Henry's face, though, told him he had nothing to worry about.

"Good morning, Mr. Coulter," John Henry greeted.  "I hope you will let
me repay your kindness to me last night by buying your breakfast.  And
your friend's breakfast as well."

"This is my brother, Joe," Win said.  "And I'd better warn you before
you get too generous that this isn't his first."

"That's quite all right.  After what you did for me last night, it's
little enough in repayment."

"Just what did you do for this fella?"  Joe asked.

"A couple of Mexicans jumped him," Win explained.  "When I came by,
they jumped me instead.  I fought them off and picked up a belly wound
to show for it."

"Did my daughter come by to tend to your wound?"  John Henry asked.  "I
must apologize, I went to my own room last night and didn't check into
her room at all.  Haven't seen her this morning either.  She must be
sleeping in."

"Yes, she stopped by.  She was very helpful," Win said.

Joe looked at Win with a silent question, and an almost imperceptible
squinting of the eyes answered it.  Yes, Win said silently.  This man's
daughter was the one he'd spent the night with.

"Do you mind if I join you gentlemen?"  John Henry asked.

"No, go ahead."

John Henry sat down and when the old woman came over, he ordered bacon
and eggs.

"I've got a proposition for you, Mr. Coulter.  Actually, for both of
you."

"This would have to do with what you told me about last night?  You
need to hire someone who is good with guns for a dangerous job, I
believe you said."

"Yes," John Henry answered.  "The pay is good.  Very good."

"How good?"

"I'll give you five hundred dollars apiece."

Joe whistled.  "That is good," he said.  "That's more'n we're getting'
to look for the girl."

"Doesn't matter," Win replied.  "We agreed to find the girl and take
her back, and that's what we're going' to do."

"I admire your loyalty," John Henry said.  "All the more reason why I'd
like to have you working with me."  He took a piece of paper from his
pocket.  "Look, I'm going' to write my name and directions on how to
get to the Tumbling C Ranch," he said.  He put the pencil between his
teeth and twisted around a few times, making more of the lead
available.

Then, smoothing the paper, he started to write.  Before he formed the
first letter, though, he looked up.  "Can you boys read?"

"We can read," Win answered.

"Good.  Once you find the girl and finish with this job, you come on
out to the Tumbling C. The job will still be waitin' for you ... unless
the Boss Man has already won the battle by then."  Win looked up with a
start.

"What's that?"  he asked.

"I said the job will still be waiting for you."

"No, the other thing.  Something about a Boss Man?"

"Not a Boss Man, the Boss Man.  I've never heard his real name."

"What is it, Win?  Why are you so interested in the Boss Man?"  Joe
asked.

"The man who ambushed us back in the canyon mentioned him," Win said.

"He said that there was no way 'the Boss Man' would let the girl go.

That's what he called him.  The Boss Man."

"What kind of battle are you and the Boss Man in?"  Win asked.

"Right now, we are in no battle at all," John Henry replied.  "The Boss
Man and a Mexican fella named Juan de la Montoya are the only ones who
are actually fightin' a battle.  They're the two biggest ranches in the
territory, and when this is all over ... there's only going to be one
left.

I'm afraid that whoever is left will come after me."

"If that happens, do you really think you and your men could hold 'em
off?  Even with the addition of our guns?"  Win asked.

"I don't know," John Henry admitted.  "I only know I'm not going to
roll over and play dead."

"This here Boss Man fella," Joe asked, "do you know if he has a woman
with him?  A woman named Cat Clay?"

"If I thought it would get you to come with me, I'd tell you that he
did," John Henry replied.  "But the truth is, I don't know if there is
a woman with him or not."

"When are you going back to the ranch?"  Win asked.

"Soon as the wagon is loaded," John Henry replied.

"I'll tell you what.  Let me look around town a bit.  It could be that
we'll talk again before you leave," Win suggested.

"I'll be in town for as long as you see my wagon over there in front of
the general store," John Henry said.  "Right now, I'm figurin' on
pullin' out about mid-afternoon.  That'll put me back to the Tumblin' C
'bout nightfall.

When Joe and Win stepped into the saloon, it was nearly empty, though
there was someone sitting down at the far end of the bar, very
carefully nursing a drink.  The bartender was washing glasses, and
someone was sweeping the floor.  At a table in the back of the room, a
large man sat playing solitaire.

"What'll it be, gents?"  the bartender asked.

"Beer," Win ordered.  With a nod, the bartender drew two mugs, then set
them on the bar.  "And give my friend at the end of the bar whatever
he's drinking," Win added.

"Your friend?"  the bartender said with a snort.  "Hell, that's the
town drunk, mister."

"You're not telling me who I can have as a friend, are you?"  Win
asked.

"No, sir, not me," the bartender said.  "I was just pointin' out that
he's the town drunk, that's all."

"Give him a drink."

The bartender nodded, then took a bottle down to the end of the bar.

The drunk, seeing that he was about to get a refill, finished his drink
quickly, then held the glass out.  The bartender filled it.

"Give me the bottle," Win said and, taking the bottle, he moved down to
the end of the bar to talk to the drunk.  Win had been around the smell
of unwashed bodies, putrefying wounds, and battlefield death, but the
stench of this man was almost unbearable.  Nevertheless, he got close
enough to pour another drink into the glass which the drunk happily
held out to him.

"You come in here a lot, do you?"  Win asked.

"Every day," the drunk answered.  "I come into here, then I go to Mr.
Murphy's establishment ... that's the saloon just down the street, then
I go into the other two.  But this one is the best."

"Do you know any of the women?"

The smile left the drunk's face.  "Mister, I'm an alcoholic ... I'm not
stupid.  You see the wretch that I have become.  Do you think any woman
... even a lady of the evening would have anything to do with me?"

"I mean, do you know any of them by name?  I'm looking for one woman in
particular."

"I know some of the names," the drunk replied.  He held out his empty
glass, and, once more, Win filled it.  The drunk tossed the drink down
as if it were water.  "Who are you looking for?"  he asked.

"I'm looking for a woman named Cat Clay."

Win saw recognition register in the drunk's eyes, but the drunk said
nothing.

"I want to pay you for the drinks," he said.

"Good, good, that's the whole point.  You can pay me by giving me the
information I'm looking for.  Do you know Cat Clay?"

Without answering, the drunk got up and walked away.  At first, Win
thought he was going to leave, but, to his surprise, the drunk walked
over to the piano and sat down.

The drunk looked at the keyboard for a minute, then he put his hands
out and began to play.  Win expected some bouncy tune, such as "Buffalo
Gals."  Instead, to his total surprise, the beautiful notes of Mozart's
Sonata in F Major filled the room.  The music spilled out, a steady,
never-wavering string of melodic phrases with a single melody weaving
through the piece like a thread of gold woven through the finest
cloth.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Win experienced a moment of deja vu.  Then
he realized that he had heard this same piece of music before.

Win's mother had loved music, and once, just before the war, a concert
pianist had visited Kansas City.  Win took her to hear him.  Win's
father hadn't gone because, in his words, "Listening to that kind of
music makes beads of sweat as big as the end of my thumb pop out on
me."  And Joe evidently got his musical appreciation from his father,
because there was no way Win could make Joe go with them.  So, it had
been just Win and his mother, and now, as he listened to this drunk
play the piano, he let time and distance slide away.  There had not
been a war, there was no Quantrill, and Lawrence, Kansas, had not
happened.  Win and his brother were not unsettled men roaming the West,
unwilling and unable to return home to Missouri.  He could almost
believe that he could leave this place and ride back to the farm, to
see the house and barn and outbuildings standing, to see his father
working the field, and his mother baking in the kitchen.

All those memories and all that emotion were triggered by the music the
drunk was playing.

But they were memories only, for the white house and the red barn of
their Missouri farm no longer existed.  They had been burned to the
ground, and today not even a pile of blackened ash marked the spot
where the buildings once stood.  The only thing to give any indication
of what had once been there were the two graves in which the charred
remains of Win and Joe's mother and father lay.  They had been killed,
and their farm burned, by Jayhawkers.

It was that incident that brought Win and Joe into the war, fighting as
Bushwhackers in Quantrill's guerrilla band.  It was that experience too
that had set the boys on the trail, for the amnesty that was
promised--and delivered to the other soldiers of the South--was denied
the men who had fought with Quantrill.

Win looked back toward the bar, at his brother.  He was looking into
his beer.  The music had meant nothing to Joe, so he was totally
oblivious to the emotional storm Win was experiencing at the moment.

When the song was over, the drunk got up and walked out of the saloon
without saying another word.

5

"Where is she?  Is she here?"  a woman asked.

Win had been looking toward the door through which the drunk had just
exited when he heard the question.  Looking around, he saw a woman
standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Where is who?"  Win asked.

"Cat Clay.  Is she down here?"

"What makes you think she might be?"

"I heard Mr. Montgomery playing the song he always plays for her, so I
thought, maybe, Cat had come back."

"No, she's not here now.  If I see her, I'll tell her you're looking
for her, though.  What's your name?"

"My name is Annie Crawford and I ..."  The woman stopped in
mid-sentence then and looked around the room nervously.

"Who are you?"  she asked.  "Did the Boss Man send you?"

"Who is the Boss Man, Annie?"  Win asked.  "And where is Cat?  Is she
with the Boss Man?"

"Who are you?"  Annie asked again, more nervous than before.

"I'm a friend," Win said.  "I'm a friend of Cat's, and I'm looking for
her."

Annie shook her head no.  "I don't think so.  I don't think you are a
friend of Cat's.  I've never seen you before, and I know all of Cat's
friends."

"I'm a friend from her past."

Annie's eyes grew flat and distant.  "Cat has no past," she said.

"None of us do.  We have no past, and we have no future.  If you were
really a friend of Cat's, you would know that."  She turned and started
back up the stairs.

"Wait, I just want to-" From behind him, Win heard the sound of a chair
scooting across the floor, then he felt the floor jar as something big
and heavy moved toward him.

"Mister, I think it's about time you left," a man's voice said.  When
Win looked around he could almost believe that a tree had suddenly
grown up beside him.  The big man who had been sitting at the back of
the room, playing solitaire, had given up his game to come over and
confront Win directly.  The man was at least six feet eight inches
tall, with a bald head that looked like a cannonball.  He had no neck,
wide shoulders, and massive arms which hung, gorilla-like, by his
sides.

"I've got a better idea," Win said.  "You leave!"  Moving quickly, Win
picked up a chair, then brought it down, hard, on the giant's head.

The giant just smiled at him.

"Oh, shit," Win said, unable to believe that the giant was still on his
feet.

The giant swung one massive hand at Win.  Win managed to throw up his
hands and turn aside to protect himself.  Even so, the glancing blow
sent tingling sensations through his entire body, down his arms and
into his hands.  He had the distinct feeling that, even if he had
wanted to use his gun against this man now, he would be unable to do
so.  He didn't think he could even hold a pistol, let alone pull it
from his holster.

"Win!  Get the hell away from him!"  Joe shouted.

Heeding his brother's advice, Win backed away.  Still smiling, the
giant started after Win, but Joe stepped in between them and sent a
hard, smashing blow to the giant's jaw.  Joe was a very strong man, and
Win had seen him in fights before.  Ordinarily, Win knew, this punch
would bring a man down.  The only effect the giant showed, however, was
to stop grinning.

A customer came in off the street at the precise moment Joe hit the
giant.  "Hey!"  he called back over his shoulder.  "The giant and that
big fella are going' at it!"

Within seconds there were half a dozen new customers in the bar.

Also, the woman who had started upstairs after Win's questioning
stopped and came back down.  A moment later she was joined by three or
four more women, in various stages of undress.  They, like the men in
the front of the saloon, stood by in fascination, as the fight between
Joe and the giant continued.

The giant swung a large, club-like blow, which Joe was able to avoid.

Joe came up on his feet and began dancing around, while the giant stood
flat-footed, watching Joe dance and weave, waiting for his
opportunity.

The giant swung again, as wildly as before, and Joe countered with a
swift left jab that caught the giant square in the face.  Despite the
power of the blow, the giant just laughed it off.

Surprisingly, Win was able to observe the fight with an almost detached
interest, curious as to how Joe would handle him.  He knew that Joe
combined strength with quickness and agility, but he also knew that Joe
had never gone up against anyone as big or as powerful as this man.

After evading another of the big man's swings, Joe counterpunched with
a second quick jab.  Again, the giant just laughed it off.  As the
fight progressed, it became apparent that Joe could hit the giant,
almost at will, but since he was bobbing and weaving, he couldn't set
himself for a telling blow, and so his scores didn't faze the giant at
all.

Joe hit the big man in the stomach several times, obviously hoping to
find a soft spot, but none was there.  Giving that up, he started
throwing punches at the giant's head, but they were just as ineffectual
until a quick opening allowed him to slam a left, square into the
giant's face.

Win saw the giant's already-flat nose go even flatter under Joe's
fist.

From that, Win knew that it had been broken.  The nose started bleeding
profusely, and the blood ran across the big man's teeth.  It was a
gruesome sight, especially as the giant continued to grin wickedly,
seemingly unperturbed by his injury.

Joe kept trying to hit the nose again, but the giant started protecting
it, which indicated to Win that the nose was undoubtedly hurting.  The
giant, nonetheless, continued to throw great swinging blows toward Joe,
who managed to slip by any real impact, catching them on his forearms
and shoulders.  Win feared that if just one of them connected with his
brother's head, Joe would be finished.

A moment later, Joe managed to get another sharp, bruising jab through
to the giant's nose, and for the first time, the giant let out a bellow
of pain.  But it was clear that the triumph would be momentary, for the
thunderous punches that had repeatedly assailed Joe's shoulders and
forearms were beginning to tell as he moved more slowly.  Then the
giant managed to land a straight, short right, and Joe fell to his
hands and knees.

"Joe!"  Win shouted.

With a yell of victory, the giant rushed over to him and tried to kick
him, but at the last second, Joe rolled to one side.  He hopped up
again before the giant could recover for a second kick and, while the
big man was still off balance, sent a brutal punch straight into the
giant's groin.

When the giant instinctively dropped both hands to his groin, Joe
slugged him in the Adam's apple.  The giant clutched his neck with both
hands and sagged, gagging, to his knees.  Joe hit him one final time,
putting everything he had into a blow to the point of the chin.  The
giant fell facedown, unconscious.

The onlookers were at first stunned, then they all started talking at
once.

"Did you kill him?"  someone asked.

"No, I don't think so," Joe replied, his breathing coming now in ragged
gasps.

"Well, if you didn't kill him, I think it would be best not to be
around when the big son of a bitch wakes up."

"Yeah, I think you're right," Joe said, going over to retrieve his
hat.

"That sounds like a good idea to me.  Come on, Big Brother, let's get
out of here."

"Wait!"  someone called from the stairway.  It was Annie, the woman Win
had been talking to earlier, and he went over to see what she wanted.

"Boss Man took Cat with him," she said.  "I don't think she really
wanted to go, but he sort of forced her, if you know what I mean."

"You mean he tied her up and took her as his prisoner?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Then, no, I don't know what you mean.  How could he 'force' her to go
with him?"

"He is a very, uh, persuasive man," Annie said.

"Where did she go, do you know?"

"I think he took her to Guzman."

"Guzman?"

"It's a little town south and west of here.  On the Mexican border."

"Thanks," Win said.

"But I'm telling you now, it won't do you any good if you do find her,"
the woman said.  "She won't go with you."

"Why don't we let her decide that?"  Win suggested.

The woman shook her head.  "It won't be up to her."

"What do you mean, it won't be up to her?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you.  Whether or not she leaves
Guzman depends on the Boss Man."

"What does he have to do with it?"

"Some people think there are no slaves anymore.  But that isn't true.

Cat is a slave, as surely as any Negro ever was.  She is a slave, and
the Boss Man is her master.  He owns her," Annie said in a
matter-of-fact voice.

Rancho Trinidad

Although Juan had doubled the guard for the last two nights, the
anticipated attack from Inferno never occurred.  Juan was certain that
the bodies had been discovered by now.  Why had there been no
retaliation?

Inferno

Juan was correct in assuming that the bodies had been discovered.  The
Boss Man had not only found them, he had already buried them.  Where
Juan made his mistake was in assuming that the Boss Man would have
enough concern for his cowboys to want to conduct a retaliatory
attack.

"Let me take some of the boys, Boss Man," one of the cowboys who had
been a particularly close friend of Shorty's said.  "They killed three
of ours, we'll kill three of theirs."

"No," the Boss Man said, holding up his hand.  "We have no proof that
Montoya was behind this.  I think it's just best to wait, and not make
any move until we are sure of what we are doing."

"All I can say, Boss Man, is you got a cooler head than I do.

That was true.  The cowboy was reacting on raw emotion.  His friends
had been killed, and he was hurt, and wanted to hurt back.  The Boss
Man wasn't hurt.  He felt no emotion whatsoever, no sense of loss over
his men, no burning need to pay anyone back for their deaths.  Their
deaths meant nothing to him, but tactical advantage meant everything.

He would make his move against Montoya someday, but only when the time
was absolutely right, and only when there would be a definite financial
advantage for him.

Rancho Trinidad

"If you have no objections, senorita," Juan said, "I will bury my
brother here, at Rancho Trinidad.  It is where I wish to be buried and
where my family will be buried.  He will be with his loved ones."

"Senor, it is not my place to say where he should be buried," Carlotta
replied, surprised that she had been consulted.

"But it is.  In another day you would have been his widow, and the
decision of his final resting place would have been yours."

"Then I say, let us bury him here," Carlotta said.  "I am sure he will
rest happily, knowing that he has the love of his brother and his
brother's family to watch over him."

"Thank you, Carlotta, you are most gracious," Juan said.  He nodded to
his foreman, who left quietly to prepare the grave at the family
cemetery, where Juan and Esteban Montoya's parents, one of Juan's
children, and the father and mother of Juan's wife already lay
buried.

Although it was a small funeral, it was conducted with great dignity,
and in addition to everyone from the ranch, nearly all the Mexicans and
a dozen or so Americans came out from Guzman.  Padre Delgado, of the
local mission, conducted the service.

When Carlotta Sanchez, still dressed in funeral black, returned from
the burial of her fiance, she went into the small family chapel just
off the main living room and lit a candle.  Then she knelt in front of
the altar and prayed very hard, not only for Esteban's soul but for her
own, because she believed that his getting killed was her fault.

Her marriage had been arranged by Carlotta's father.  Her father knew
that such a marriage was a wonderful match because Don Esteban de la
Montoya was not only a member of the wealthy Montoya family, he was
also the owner of a large ranch in northern Mexico.  He was also a
well-known hero who had fought and defeated the Sonora Bandidos.

But Esteban was forty-three years old and Carlotta was only
seventeen.

If she married someone that old, she would become an old woman before
her time.  During the long journey up to Rancho Trinidad, she had
prayed, unceasingly, for something to happen that would prevent the
marriage.

Now there would be no wedding because Esteban was dead, and Carlotta
was certain she was the cause of it.  Her prayers had been answered but
in such a cruel way.

By the time Carlotta got up from her knees, she knew what she must
do.

She would stay with Juan and his family and be the sister to them that
she would have been had she married Esteban.  And she would never
marry, but remain true to Esteban's memory for as long as she lived.

It was a penance she owed for the sin she had committed.

"But, of course, we would be happy to have you stay with us," Miguelina
said when Carlotta told her of her plans.  "Juan, do you see how sweet
she is?"

"Yes," Juan agreed.  He kept to himself any worry about the range war
he knew was about to erupt.  In fact, he had thought of sending
Miguelina, their children, and Carlotta back to Mexico.  The only
reason he did not was because he was afraid that they would be
subjected to a greater danger during the trip back.

"I have an idea," Miguelina suggested.  "We can send Carlotta and the
children to the school in Guzman.  Miss Clark is a wonderful teacher,
and Carlotta can learn much from her."

"Yes," Juan agreed.  "That is a good idea."  Miss Clark, he knew, was
the daughter of the owner of the Tumbling C Ranch.  Even though he was
an American, John Henry Clark had long been a good neighbor.  He was
neutral in the disagreement between Rancho Trinidad and Inferno
Ranch.

Because of that, Juan believed that anyone in his care--or in the care
of John Henry Clark's daughter--would be safe in a range war, no matter
how ferocious the fighting might become.

Carlotta was equally happy about the decision.  She very much wanted to
finish her education, and by helping to watch over the Montoya
children, she believed she would be paying the debt of honor she owed
the Montoya family.

6

Pedro Bustamante raised the binoculars to his eyes and looked down
toward the little camp.  There were two wagons and four men in the
camp.

Pedro was certain there would be something valuable inside the
wagons.

Pedro had bandoliers of rifle ammunition that crisscrossed his chest, a
pistol belt full of cartridges around his waist, and a long knife in a
scabbard that hung down his back, just behind his shoulder.  He was
wearing a large sombrero and a full beard.  He lowered the binoculars
and looked around him at the men who were waiting in a small draw
behind him.  They, like him, were wearing crisscrossed bandoliers.

There were five, including himself, who came across the border when
they learned that a range war was brewing between a big gringo rancher
and Juan Montoya.

Pedro Bustamante had no love for Montoya, and he hated gringos.  He
came across the border in pursuit of opportunity.  He could attack both
sides with impunity, take whatever spoils there were to take, and get
back across the border before anyone was the wiser.

Bustamante held up four fingers, indicating how many men were with the
wagons.  He waved his men after him, and they started toward the little
camp.

Win and Joe were quite a distance away when they heard the gunfire.

They had no idea what the shooting was about, but they had trained
themselves, over the past several years, to always ride to the sound of
the guns.

"Let's go!"  Win shouted.

"Hey, Win, when we get there, which side will we fight on?"  Joe asked
as the two men spurred their horses into a gallop.

"We'll figure that out later," Win replied.

"Hell," Joe said with a laugh.  "Let's just take on whoever is left!"

It took them four minutes of hard riding to reach the scene.  When they
crested the hill and looked down below them, they saw four bodies on
the ground.  The two wagons were being looted.  The men who were
helping themselves to the contents of the wagons were Mexicans.

"Looks like you had the right idea, Little Brother," Win said.  "We'll
take on the ones who are left."

While riding with Quantrill, during the war, Win and Joe had often
burst onto a scene, totally unexpected.  That experience had taught
them that boldness and complete surprise could overcome phenomenal
odds, even those as great as the odds that faced them now.

Win's first shot took one of the Mexicans out of his saddle before he
even knew he was in danger.  Joe dropped a second one, and Win got
another one with his next shot.  Now there were only two Mexicans
remaining.  The odds were even as far as numbers go, but in boldness
and surprise, they had shifted dramatically to Win and Joe.

The remaining Mexicans returned fire, and Win heard a bullet cut the
air as it whistled by him.  He leaned over the neck of his horse and
continued the charge.  He hit one of the Mexicans in the knee and heard
him cry out in pain.  Joe had his hat shot from his head, and the
bullet spooked his horse.  He kept his saddle and still managed to
return fire.

The remaining two Mexicans, seeing that they were no match for the
charging Americans, spurred their horses into a gallop, abandoning
their spoils in their panic.  Win and Joe halted at the wagons, and
though they fired a few parting shots at the fleeing bandits, they
didn't go after them.

Win was the first to dismount and look at the seven men lying in the
dirt.  The bodies were the four Americans the Mexicans had killed in
their attack and the three Mexicans Win and Joe had shot.

"What's in the wagons?"  Joe asked.

Win looked through the load, pushing a few items around.

"Looks like some cloth, washboards, shoeblack, and something called
Extract of Buchu Elixir, whatever the hell that is."

"Anything we can use?"

"Apple peelers, ladies' corsets, picture frames," Win went on, reading
the labels from the boxes.  He sighed and ran his hand through his
hair.

"Are you telling me that seven men died for a couple of cases of
corsets?"  he asked disgustedly.  "What a waste."

"Damn," Joe said.  "You'd think that, with two wagons, there'd be
something' worth our stealin'."

"All right," Win said.  "Let's throw the bodies into the back of the
wagons and we'll take them into town."

When the two wagons pulled into town, they got everyone's attention.

Joe drove the first wagon, Win drove the second.  Their horses were
tied on behind, trailing the wagons at a slow walk.  Everyone
recognized the wagons immediately as belonging to Webb's Freight
Service.  But nobody knew who the two men were driving them.

"Wasn't Webb drivin' one of them wagons when they left out of here?"

someone asked.

"He sure was.  And Jonesy was on the second wagon."

"They had McDaniels and Carter with 'em too."

"Well, then, who the hell are these men?  They sure as hell didn't go
out with the wagons."

A twelve-year-old boy, with a bolder approach to satisfying his
curiosity, ran out into the street, his shirt flapping out of his
trousers.

He trotted up to one of the wagons, then looked inside.  When he saw
the bodies inside, he started shouting the news to the others.

"It's Mr.  Webb!"  he yelled.  "He's dead an' so's all the others.

They's four," he said before looking back into the second wagon and
seeing the bodies of the Mexicans.  "No, wait, they's six ... seven,
they's seven dead men in these wagons.  Four American and three Mex!"

"Did you boys kill Webb, mister?"  someone asked Joe.  Joe didn't
answer.

From the stores, saloons, cantinas, barbershops, and cafes, citizens of
the small town of Guzman, alerted by the boy's words and the shouts of
others, came outside to move silently down the street.  They kept pace
alongside the wagons as the somber procession moved slowly down the
street.

Finally the wagons reached the center of the plaza where Joe and Win
set the brakes then climbed down.

The sheriff came out into the plaza, looked at the seven corpses, then
took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a dirty red bandanna.

"Who are they, Sheriff?"  someone asked, pointing to the Mexicans.

"I don't recognize them," the sheriff answered.  He looked toward the
group of brown-skinned citizens who, forming half the population of
Guzman, had turned out with equal interest.  "Any of you hombres know
them?"  he asked.

There was a long moment of silence among the Mexicans as they consulted
quietly and in their own language with each other.  Finally one of them
spoke, hesitantly.

"I know one of them."

"You know one, Jesus?  Which one?  Who is he?"  the sheriff asked.

"That one is Manuel," Jesus said, pointing to one of the bodies.

"He's my cousin."

"I've never seen him before," the sheriff replied.  "Does he live here
in Guzman?"

"No, Senor Sheriff," Jesus answered.  "He lives in Mexico.  He is a bad
man, and he rides with Pedro Bustamante."

At the mention of Bustamante's name, everyone buzzed with excitement.

They had all heard of Pedro Bustamante.  The bandit had built a
reputation for himself south of the border, robbing banks, raiding
entire villages, and fighting pitched battles with the Federales.

"I never heard of Bustamante coming over on this side of the border,"
the sheriff replied.  He looked at Win and Joe.  "Who are you two
fellas?"  he asked.  "How'd you get involved in this?"

"I'll vouch for them, Sheriff.  The mean-looking one is Win Coulter.

The big fella is his younger brother Joe," a voice said.  It was a
voice that Win and Joe had heard before, though not for many years.

A tall man, clean-shaven and with a narrow, pinched face and
gunmetal-gray eyes, stepped out of the crowd.

"That's ..."  Joe started.

"Lieutenant B.J. Poindexter," Win finished.

Lieutenant B.J. Poindexter had ridden with Win and Joe during their
time with Quantrill's Raiders.  After the raid on Lawrence, Poindexter
boasted to the others that he had "sent ten Yankees to their Maker,"
though as Win and some of the others discussed later, at least half of
Poindexter's victims were under sixteen.

"You know these boys, Boss Man?"  the sheriff asked.

"I know them.  They are fine men, who fought bravely for the South
during the War Between the States."  Poindexter walked over to the
wagons and looked at the dead Mexicans.  "And I am happy to see that
they are still patriots.  These Mexicans may be bandits from south of
the border, but there's no doubt in my mind why they are here."

"You figure Montoya brought them?"  someone asked.

"Of course he did," Poindexter replied.  "He'd do anything to run me
out of here ... and if he manages to do that, the rest of you may as
well learn Spanish, 'cause there won't be any Americans left."

"Now, we don't know that Montoya brought these men up here," the
sheriff said.

"Come on, Sheriff.  Is there any doubt at all?"  Poindexter asked.

"You know damned well we're in a war here.  Didn't his men attack one
of my line shacks the other night and kill three of my boys?"

"There is no proof that it was Montoya's men who killed your boys," the
sheriff said.  "Just like there is no proof that any of your men killed
Esteban Montoya."

"Yes, well, nevertheless, there's bad blood between Inferno and
Trinity," Poindexter said.  "But everybody knows that."  He nodded
toward the wagon.  "Now, from the looks of things, Montoya has arranged
for his friend Bustamante to take the war to the folks in town now."

"Senor," Jesus said, "Bustamante is not a friend of Senor de la
Montoya.  They have long been enemigos.  Enemies."

"Yeah, well, they're both Mexicans," Poindexter said.  "That's enough
for me."

"You can't lump them all together like that.  Montoya has been a good
citizen for as long as I've known him," the sheriff said.  "And these
hombres are Mexican bandits from across the border."

"Yeah?  Well, you said it yourself, Sheriff.  You never knew Bustamante
to come across the border before now."

The sheriff rubbed his chin and looked at the three dead bandits.

"No," he agreed slowly.  "I don't reckon I have."

"Well, there you have it.  They came across the border because Montoya
brought 'em across.  It don't make no difference to him.  All he cares
about is stealin' as much land as he can grab off.  If a few innocent
folks get killed along the way, well, so be it.  So I don't intend to
trust any Mexican."

The sheriff took in the several gathered Mexicans of the town with a
wave of his hand.  "I don't agree with you there.  Our Mexicans have
always been a decent enough sort."

"And they will be again, Sheriff, once we let Montoya know who is in
charge around here."

"And just who would you say is in charge around here?"  the sheriff
asked, rather sharply.

"In town, Sheriff, you're in charge," Poindexter said, smiling without
humor.  "But out of town ... on the range ... a new day has come.

Trinidad is no longer the 'rancho grande,' and Montoya is no longer the
crown prince.  Now it's Inferno and a man folks call 'The Boss Man.""
Poindexter's smile broadened, and now it was genuine.  "You might say,
'The King is dead!  Long live the King!'" Several cheers greeted
Poindexter's statement, but Joe and Win noticed that, not only did none
of the Mexicans join in the cheering, but many of them looked around in
fear.

"All right, all right!"  the sheriff called, holding his hands over his
head to call for quiet.  "Let's break it up.  You folks go on about
your business and let the undertaker get about his."

With a last, lingering look, the townspeople, Mexican and American,
drifted away.

"Win, Joe," Poindexter invited, "how 'bout you boys come on over to the
Independence Saloon and let me buy you a drink, not only for what you
did here today, but for old times' sake."

"We're not ones to turn down free drinks," Win said.

Poindexter chuckled.  "Didn't think so ... leastwise, I didn't remember
you as such.  And while we're at it, maybe we can discuss a little
business."

7

IT WAS VERY obvious THAT B.J. Poindexter, OR THE Boss Man as everyone
called him, was pretty much King of the Walk in Guzman.  When he took
Win and Joe into the Independence Saloon for drinks, the crowd moved
out of the way before him like the sea parting before Moses.  He headed
for a table in the back of the saloon, and though there were already
two people sitting there, they got up and moved when they saw
Poindexter coming toward the table.

"You must come here often," Win suggested.

"Often enough.  I own it," Poindexter said.  "Look around.  You see any
Mexicans in here?"

Win and Joe looked around and saw only Anglo faces.  "No, I don't guess
I do," Win said.

Poindexter laughed.  "You ain't going' to either.  We don't allow 'em
in the Independence.  I mean, the sons of bitches are all over,
everywhere else.  So I figured, why not have at least one place where
an American can have a drink in peace, without having to listen to all
that Mexican palaver."

"If you own the place, I reckon you can do whatever you please," Win
said.

"Damn right I can do what I please.  Angus!"  Poindexter tossed over
his shoulder to the bartender.  "Bring one of my special bottles.  And
three glasses."

"Right away, Boss Man," the bartender answered.

"Why are you called Boss Man?"  Joe asked.

"He works for me."

"Him, I can see.  But seems to me like just about everyone around here
calls you Boss Man."

Poindexter chuckled.  "Well, I guess it's because more than half the
people you are likely to find within a fifty-mile radius of this place
work for me," he answered.  "The cowboys started calling me that first,
and it just sort of took."

"It doesn't look like you've done anything to get them to change," Win
said.

"No, why should I?  A fella calls me Boss Man, right away he knows
where he stands, and where I stand.  Makes things a lot easier."

"Poindexter, there is no way in hell I'm ever going' to call you Boss
Man," Win said.

This time Poindexter laughed out loud.  "No, I reckon not.  We went
through too much together, you two and I. And I have to tell you, you
boys are sure a sight for these sore eyes," Poindexter said.  "It's
been a long time since I saw any of our comrades in arms.  What about
you?  You ever see any of the old boys anymore?"

"We've run across a few now and then, but not many, and not very
often," Win replied.

"'Course, Frank and Jesse James seem to be the ones who have made a
name for themselves," Poindexter said.  "They, and the Younger
brothers.

Ever see them?"

"Not since the war," Win said.  "And that's been a while."

The bartender arrived with the bottle and Poindexter thanked him, then
pulled the cork and poured the three glasses.  "Yeah, it has.  You
know, if you ask me, those boys would be a lot better off getting' out
of Missouri and startin' all over again.  It's not all that smart to be
too well known if you're going' to be in the outlaw business."

Poindexter raised his drink.  "To the boys we rode with," he toasted.

"I can drink to that," Win replied, hoisting his own glass.

The three men tossed down their drinks, then Poindexter poured another
round.  He lifted his drink.  "And now, a toast to the finest cavalry
leader ever to fork a horse.  William Clark Quantrill," he said.

"I must say, you remember the son of a bitch a lot more kindly than I
do," Win replied.  "But like I said, I'm not one to turn down a drink,
even if it has to be to a bastard like Quantrill."

Again, the three men drank.

"Now," Poindexter said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand,
"like I said, let's talk some business."

"What kind of business?"  Win asked.

Poindexter smiled.  "The kind of business that I know you boys are
particularly good at.  The kind of business you handled this morning.

You're still not ones to back away from a fight, I see."

"We don't go around looking for fights," Win said.  "But if one comes
along ... we're not backing away from it."

"Well, boys, there's one hell of a fight brewin' up here.  And if you'd
care to join it, it'll be just like old times."  Poindexter chuckled.

"Only I'll pay you a hell of a lot better'n Quantrill ever did."

"Against the bandido they call Bustamante?"

"Bustamante's nothing," Poindexter said, dismissing the bandit with a
snorting sound and a wave of his hand.  "No, the one I'm after is
Montoya.

Don Juan de la Montoya.  He's the Mex that owns Trinidad."

"That's a ranch?  Trinidad?"

"Not just a ranch," Poindexter said.  "It's the finest ranch in New
Mexico Territory, maybe the finest ranch in the entire Southwest.  If I
had that ranch, and added to it the acreage I already control ... why,
by God, boys, there are kingdoms in Europe that aren't as big."

"What about John Henry Clark and the Tumbling C?"  Win asked.

Poindexter looked surprised by the question.  "What do you know about
the Tumbling C?"

"I heard there were actually three ranches here.  Trinidad, Inferno,
and the Tumbling C."

"Well, you heard wrong," Poindexter said.

"You mean there is no Tumbling C?"

"Oh, there's a Tumbling C, all right," Poindexter said.  "And I don't
mind telling you that it's a fine ranch, well laid out, sturdy
buildings, proven water wells.  But it's not one fourth as large as
Inferno, and right now it's no more problem to me than a flea on a
horse's ass.  But, once I get control of Trinidad, I might just go
after the Tumbling C."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Win said easily.

"What do you mean?"

"Go after the Tumbling C."

Poindexter laughed.  "What difference does it make to you whether or
not I go after John Henry Clark?"

"Because he is our employer," Win said.  "And if you go after him, you
are going to have to go through us."

Poindexter looked at the two brothers as if they had suddenly gone
crazy.  Then, inexplicably, he laughed.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said.  "I wouldn't have thought the old coot
had it in him.  So he's hired himself some guns, huh?  And you boys are
it?  It's a little different from ridin' under Quantrill's flag, I'll
tell you that."

"Some different, I reckon," Win agreed.  "But it's what we're going' to
do."

"Well, then, don't worry about it," Poindexter said.  "Clark and I
aren't enemies.  And of course I'm not going to go up against my old
pards.

Why, fightin' against them that rode with Quantrill would be like
committin' treason.  Anyway, like I said, the Tumbling C isn't really a
problem.  Montoya is the one I'm going after.  I just said that about
the Tumbling C because sometimes I get caught up in the emotions, just
like we did during the war.  Well, you boys know how it was at places
like Lawrence.  I reckon, as we look back on it, all of us did
something' we'd probably just as soon forget."

"I reckon so."

"Oh, by the way, I've got Someone here I would like you boys to meet.

Wait until you see her.  She's something really special."

"She?"

"Her name is Cat Clay.  She's my woman."

WIN SMILED AS Poindexter LEFT, THEN LEANED ACROSS the table to speak
quietly to his brother.  "This is a lot easier than I thought it would
be.

The son of a bitch is doing our work for us."

"How do you want to do this?  I mean, how do you want to take her
back?"

"We'll give her a chance to come with us on her own," Win said.  "If
she's willing, we'll just ride out of here today."

"What if she's not willing?"

"It doesn't make any difference whether she's willing or not," Win said
resolutely.  "We're getting' paid to take her, so we'll just take
her.

Once we get her back to Kirby, she, and he, are on their own.  If she
wants to come back, she's free to do so.  We'll have done our part."

"Then what?"

"Then we'll come back down here and earn our pay from Clark."

"We will have, for sure, made an enemy of Poindexter by then," Joe
said.

Win snorted.  "So what?  I didn't like the son of a bitch when we were
ridin' together."

"That's the truth," Joe agreed.  "Here they come," he said quietly.

When Poindexter came back down the stairs, he was wearing a large
smile.  A woman was also descending the stairs behind him, but as he
was blocking her from view, neither Win nor Joe could see her that
clearly.

They could tell, though, that she was tall and willowy, and
well-shaped.

She was dressed and made-up like the saloon girl she was, with lots of
paint on her face, and a dress that looked more like it belonged in a
bedroom than on the street.  And though she was beginning to show some
dissipation from her life on the line, it was obvious that she had
been, and was still, a very pretty woman.

"Boys, this little angel is Cat Clay," Poindexter said.  "Cat, these
two galoots rode with me when I was with Quantrill.  I heard Quantrill
himself say that these two boys was worth a whole company of men.  This
here is Win and Joe Coulter."

Cat had kept her eyes down until that point.  But when she heard their
names, she gasped and looked up at them.

"Joe?"  she said.  "Joe, is that you?"

Cat's lips were painted a blood-red, her natural features were covered
with rouge and mascara, and the hair that framed that face was an
unnatural blond.  But there was something strangely familiar in her
eyes ... deep, cobalt-blue eyes which were now staring so intensely at
Joe.

"Have we met?"  Joe asked.

Poindexter laughed.  "I wouldn't doubt it," he said.  "Before I took
Cat off the line, she was a whore.  She's worked at half the saloons in
Texas."

Cat continued to stare at Joe, and though she said nothing, her eyes
welled with tears, then they began sliding down her face, cutting a
path through the heavy makeup.

"What is it?"  Joe asked.  He could feel a connection with this woman,
and though he didn't know why, he couldn't deny its intensity.

"You didn't come back," Cat said.

Win was still in the dark.  "I beg your pardon?"  he replied.  "Joe,
you know this girl?"

"You didn't come back," Cat said again.  "I waited for you.  I waited
for an entire year.  I thought, surely, you would write, you would get
word to me, someway.  But when I heard nothing after all that time, I
gave up.

I ... I thought you were dead."

"Oh, my God," Joe said quietly.

Once, when Joe was very young, he was kicked in the stomach by a
mule.

No ribs were broken, but his breath had been knocked out of him, and he
could remember lying on the ground for a long, agonizing moment, trying
to breathe, wondering, in fact, if he would ever breathe again.

He had that same sensation now.

Win still didn't know what was going on, but he knew now that Joe
did.

He looked into his brother's eyes and saw the most terrible longing for
a life that might have been since the time the two of them had stood
together over the smoldering ruins of the family farm, many years
ago.

"My God, it's Katie Ann," Joe said.  His voice was quiet, almost
reverent.  Cat nodded, but no words came.  She choked back a sob.

Now, as Win looked at Cat Clay, he knew that Joe was right.  Joe was
first to recognize the young girl who had once been their neighbor, but
that could be expected.  If there had been no war, if things had gone
as planned, this girl would now be Joe's wife, and they would be
raising children and running a farm together, back in Missouri.

"Katie Ann McGallagher," Joe said.  "God in Heaven, girl, what are you
doing here?"

Cat didn't answer.  Instead, she whirled around and literally ran back
up the stairs.

"Cat!  Cat, that's no way for you to be behaving in front of my
friends!"  Poindexter called.  He started toward the foot of the
stairs, but Joe reached out and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him
back.

"No," Joe said sharply.  "Leave her be."

"Look," Poindexter said.  "I don't know what all that was about, just
now.  And the truth is, I don't care.  If you know her from somewhere
before, that's fine.  But she's my woman now, and you'll not be telling
me how to handle my woman."

"I said, leave her be," Joe said again, his voice cold and dangerous.

For a long moment the two stared at each other, then suddenly,
Poindexter smiled and nodded.

"All right," he said.  "I don't know what's going on here, but I can
see that Cat is upset.  I'll give her a chance to pull herself
together."

The smile left his face.  "But a word of advice.  Don't get any ideas
that whatever might have gone on between the two of you before can
happen again.

Like I said ... she is my woman."

In her room upstairs, Cat Clay closed the door and locked it.  She
stood there for a long moment, staring at the locked door, wishing
there was also a door in her heart that she could close and lock.

She was Cat Clay now, Cat, instead of Kate.  She chose the last name
Clay as a reminder of the county of her birth, Clay County, Missouri.

In truth, she knew that Joe Coulter wasn't dead, and had known it for a
long time.  She had learned it the first time when she saw some of the
early wanted posters on the two brothers.

Win and Joe had attempted, like so many other soldiers of the
Confederacy after the war, to turn themselves in to the amnesty
program.

But amnesty had been denied those who rode with Quantrill.  There was a
price on their heads, and when they tried to turn themselves in, they
were arrested and sentenced to hang.  They blasted their way out of a
prison train, and from then on, had no choice but to leave Missouri and
go on the run.

Cat Clay, or Katie McGallagher as she was known then, waited patiently,
for as long as a year, for Joe to come back for her.

Realistically, she had known that Missouri was dangerous for him, but
she nevertheless clung to the promise he had made to her before the
war.

Although she had the door to her past slammed shut in her heart, the
memories, as if of their own volition, came flooding back to her:

The white-flagged dogwoods and the lavender redbud trees were creating
beautiful swirls of color in the Missouri hills in the spring of '61.

It was the time of the annual Clay County Farmers' barn dance, and
Katie, who was seventeen that year, had waited for it throughout the
long, bitter winter of '60 and '61.

The barn dance was the first, and the biggest, social event of the
season.  Katie had been going to them since she was twelve, and she
enjoyed the dancing, and the music, and food, and the giggling, girlish
conversations with all her friends.  But this year she was looking
forward to the dance for a different reason.  This year, she would be
with Joe Coulter.

The Coulter family owned the farm next door to the McGallaghers, and
Joe was the youngest of the two Coulter sons.  Most of the girls in the
county thought that Win was the more handsome of the two, and a lot of
girlish fantasies had been built around him.

But Katie was smitten with Joe.  She liked his quiet strength and his
boyish shyness.  She also liked the fact that Joe shared her love of
the land and farming.

"Joe Coulter has the makings of a fine farmer," Katie heard her father
say one day when he and some other men were in a discussion about the
future of Clay County.  "Yes, sir, it wouldn't surprise me none if Joe
didn't wind up doubling the size of the Coulter farm before he's
through."

"What about his brother?"  one of the others asked.  "Win's older,
he'll come into half of the Coulter farm."

"Win?  Oh, he's a good man, all right, but he's no farmer, and he'll be
the first to tell you that.  You want to know what I think?  I think
that Win will sell out his half of the farm to Joe, then go off on his
own, some'eres.  Yes, sir, Win Coulter is just the kind that's likely
to wind up somewhere down in Texas, or out in Californy, looking for
gold or some such thing.  Win has a bad case of wantin' to see what's
over the next hill.

But Joe will be right here the day he dies.  Joe is the dependable
one."

Katie's father didn't make her choose Joe over Win, but his opinion of
Joe certainly validated the choice Katie had already made.

The dance had been as wonderful as all of Katie's girlish dreams had
anticipated.  Then, toward the end of the dance, Katie and Joe sneaked
outside for a breath of fresh air.  As they walked away from the
brightly lighted barn, down the little hill to the split-rail fence,
they could hear the music behind them: the thrum of the guitars, the
high keening of the fiddle, the whang of the Jew's harp.  And though
they couldn't see the colors of the flowers, the night air around them
was scented with the smell of the spring blossoms and freshly cut
grass.  Before them the hills were displayed in soft, night shades of
silver and black, silhouetted against the star-dusted sky.

"I got something' I want to talk to you about," Joe said.

"My, it sounds serious," Katie teased.

"It is," Joe said.  He cleared his throat nervously.  "Look.  I know
you're real young, you're only ..."

"I'm seventeen," Katie had interrupted.  "That's not young, that's a
woman, full grown."

"Your pa says I got to wait till you're eighteen," Joe said.

"My pa says?  You've been talkin' to my pa?"

"Yes."

"About what?  What right have you to talk to my pa about me, without
talking to me first?"

"That's just it, Katie Ann," Joe said.  "Don't you understand?  I got
no right to talk to you at all, without I talk to your pa first."

"Joe Coulter, you aren't making a bit of sense," Katie scolded.

Joe cleared his throat and nervously ran his hand through his hair.

"What I'm tryin' to get around to sayin', Katie Ann McGallagher, is
that I'm getting' of the age to start makin' some serious plans about
my future.  And ..."  Too nervous to go on, Joe stopped in
mid-sentence.

"Joe Coulter, are you asking me to marry you?"

"Uh, yeah," Joe mumbled.  "That is, I'm going' to ask you to marry me
if I can get around to the asking'."

"When do you plan to get around to the asking?"

"Well, that's what I'm tryin' to do right now," Joe replied.

"Yes."

"I know it's prob'ly comin' as somewhat of a shock to you, I mean me
bein' so busy an' all that you prob'ly don't think I even notice you,
but ..."

"Yes."

"The thing is, well, Pa says I'm already pullin' my own weight with the
farm an' we got plans to add some more acreage-" "Yes."

"So, well, uh, what with more acreage, there'll be enough room on the
place where I can build a house of my own, and I was thinkin' that
maybe down by Duck Creek ..."

"Joe?"

"That is, if you was ..."

"Joe?"

"I mean, well, not until you're eighteen, but maybe then, if ..."

"JOE!"  Katie literally screamed his name at him this time.

"What?"  Joe replied, startled by the shout.

"I said, yes, I will marry you!"

Joe smiled, then took her into his arms and kissed her.  "Well, why
didn't you tell me so from the beginnin' so I'd be spared all this
hemmin' and hawin' around?"  Joe asked.

Katie laughed softly.  "I don't know," she said.  "I guess I just
wanted to hear you say it."

"Katie Ann McGallagher, will you become my wife?"  Joe asked
seriously.

"I mean, when you're eighteen, and your pa's willin' to go to church
with us, and give you away proper."

"Yes, Joe Coulter.  I would be very happy to marry you," Katie said.

The marriage never took place.  Instead, the war came, and Jayhawkers
from Kansas burned the Coulter farm and murdered Joe's mother and
father.

In retaliation, Win and Joe joined Quantrill's band and, for four long
years, carried on a terrible, bloody, guerrilla war.  Throughout the
war Katie waited patiently, as she had promised.  But Joe never
returned.

Katie's own mother and father also died during the war, not brutally as
had Joe's parents, but of illness.  In the end, it didn't really matter
how they died.  They were dead all the same.  With Katie's parents
dead, and with the realization that Joe would not be coming back to
her, Katie left Missouri.  Somewhere along the way she stopped being
Katie McGallagher and became Cat Clay.

In the beginning Cat tried more conventional ways of earning a living:
teaching school, working in a ribbon shop, baking pies.  But the work
was hard and the pay was little.  It was easier than she would have
ever imagined to drift into the oldest and most profitable
profession.

She made very little notice of the loss of her virginity--it had just
happened, and she could no longer even remember who it'd happened
with.

Last year, in the town of Afton, she met a man, an accountant named
Marcus Kirby.  Mr.  Kirby wanted to "take her away from the life."

Tired of being on the line, Katie had, for a short while, considered
it.  But she felt no real love for him, and she realized that his
interest in her was more as a reformer than as a lover, so when B.J.

Poindexter invited her to come with him, she left, believing that, in
the long run, what she was doing was best for her, and for Marcus
Kirby.

As it turned out, she felt no love for Poindexter either.  Indeed, she
wasn't sure she could ever feel love for another man.  But at least
Poindexter passed no judgments on her, and hadn't even asked her to
leave "the life."  She had no intention of ever marrying him, but
neither did she regret running away with him.  And if now and again
little thoughts of things that could never be happened to pop up in her
mind, they were easy enough to put away.

Whenever Katie felt the need to comfort herself with a fantasy of what
might have been, she could still recall the kiss she and Joe had shared
on that blossom-scented night before their future was taken from
them.

There was more passion and more eroticism in that innocent memory than
she had experienced with all the men she had been with.

She could have lived with that memory for the rest of her life.  She
was convinced of that.  But now Joe was here, downstairs.  And never in
her life had she experienced such conflicting emotions.  Part of her
wept with joy at seeing him again after all these years.  But just as
big a part of her screamed with the pain of having to come face-to-face
with that which had been denied her.  She lay on her bed and cried.

8

Rancho Trinidad In the middle of the night, a small figure walked
fearfully into the darkened bedroom of el senor de la casa.

"Senor Montoya," he whispered loudly.  "Senor Montoya, please wake
up."

When Juan opened his eyes he saw his houseboy, Carlos, standing by his
bed, a serape wrapped around the underwear he used as pajamas.

Carlos's eyes were wide and shining with excitement or fear, or perhaps
a little of both.  Juan had no idea what time it was, but from the
position of the moon he knew it had to be two or three in the morning,
certainly an unusual time to be called.

"What is it, Carlos?"  Juan asked.  "Why have you awakened me at this
hour?"

"Please forgive me for disturbing your sleep, Excelente, but there is
an hombre at the front door with a message for you," Carlos said.

Juan ran his hand through his hair sleepily.  "A message for me?  Why
do you bother me at this hour for a message that you could deliver when
I wake in the morning?"

"Excelente, he would not give me the message.  He insisted that I wake
you."

"He insisted?  A stranger comes in the middle of the night and insists
that you awaken el senor de la casa and you obey?"

"Forgive me, Excelente, I beg of you.  But he frightens me."

"I see.  And I don't?"

"Perden, Excelente, you are a man of great power and wisdom, but you
are also a man of justice and fairness.  I did not think you would harm
me for waking you in the middle of the night.  I feared this man would
harm me if I did not wake you."

"Very well," Juan said.  He pointed to his robe, an elegant garment of
purple silk.  The coat of arms of the Montoya family, a plumed helmet
above a lion rampant, was embroidered in gold on the left pocket.

"I must tell you one thing more," Carlos said as he helped Juan into
his robe.

"Si?"

"The man with the message is a bandido.  I am sure he is from one of
the bands in Mexico."

Juan looked around sharply.  "Are there more bandidos with him?"  he
asked.

"I do not think there are more, Excelente.  Before I came in to see you
I looked through the upstairs window.  There is only one horse.  I am
sure he is alone."

Juan opened the top drawer of the chifforobe and pulled out a small
pocket derringer.  Charging the two barrels with powder and ball, he
slipped the little gun into his pocket.  The derringer, he knew, was
not accurate beyond a few feet, but within that space its .41 caliber
bullet was extremely deadly.  He nodded to Carlos.

"All right, let's see what our bandido friend wants," he said.  He
patted his pocket.  "And if he is too disagreeable, I have the means to
deal with him."

Lamps burned in the hallway and on the stairs so that Juan's way was
illuminated.  When he reached the landing he stood at the top of the
stairs and looked down onto the great room where his visitor stood,
holding his fringed sombrero in front of him.

The night intruder seemed visibly impressed with the room, and he stood
there, looking at the richly paneled walls, cathedral ceiling, hanging
tapestries, heavy furniture, candelabras, and polished lanterns.

Juan was glad to see the awe with which the messenger was taking it all
in, because it meant that his visitor was a peasant whose normal
reaction was to be cowed by wealth and position.  He decided to use
that to his advantage.

"What do you mean by calling at this hour of the morning?"  Juan asked
in his most authoritative voice.

The visitor looked around, saw the elegant robe and the commanding
presence of the master of the house, and he blanched visibly.

"I beg your forgiveness, Excelente," the visitor said, bowing
slightly.

"I was sent here by my chief, General Pedro Bustamante."

Carlos was correct, Juan thought.  He'd said the messenger looked as if
he rode with a bandido band.  Every two-peso bandit in Mexico who could
get half a dozen men to follow him called himself a general.

At first Juan started to make a derisive comment about it, then he
decided not to.  It was obvious that his visitor was impressed by title
and position; it wouldn't do to undermine that sense of inferiority,
even if it meant acting as if the general deserved the messenger's
respect.

"And what is so important that the general wishes to tell me about it
at this hour?"  Juan asked.

"The general wishes to meet with you, Excelente.  He asks that you come
to Le Tigre Pass.  He asks that you do this alone."

"What is the meeting about?"

"I do not know, Excelente," the bandido said.

Juan ran his hand through his hair.  The place Bustamante chose to meet
him was very isolated, its approaches easily seen.  There was no way
Juan could have someone go with him without being seen.  If Bustamante
wanted to do anything to him, Juan would be helpless to resist.

On the other hand, if he didn't go, Bustamante could attack the ranch,
perhaps harm his family.  He had enough trouble with Inferno.  He
didn't need to be facing an attack by bandidos as well.  The best thing
would be to see what the man wanted.  "When is this meeting to take
place?"

"At mid-morning, Excelente."

"Very well.  You may return to the general and tell him I will be
there."

"Gracias, Senor Montoya," the messenger said, bowing respectfully.

The sun was one quarter of the way through its daily sojourn when Juan
Montoya reached Le Tigre Pass.  There he saw three men waiting in the
shade of an overhanging slab of rock.  They came out to meet him.

"Don Juan de la Montoya, I am General Pedro Bustamante, at your
service," Pedro said.  He took off his sombrero and made a sweeping
bow.

Juan looked at Pedro and at the two men with him.  He had never seen
anyone as heavily armed as these men were.  Between them they had six
pistols, three rifles, and three knives.  They were also a walking
armory of ammunition.

"What can I do for you, General?"  Juan asked.

Bustamante smiled broadly when Juan called him general.

"No, no, Excelente," Pedro said, wagging his finger back and forth.

"It is not what you can do for me, but what I, General Pedro
Bustamante, can do for you, my countryman.  I can help you with your
war."

"What war?"

Pedro forced a laugh.  He looked at the two men who were with him, and
they laughed as well--high, insane cackles.

"What war?  Ah, you say 'what war' when everyone knows of the war being
fought between Rancho Trinidad and the gringo ranch called Inferno."

"Why would you want to fight in this war?"  Juan asked.

"Because, Excelente, I am fired with patriotic zeal when I think of the
slaughter of your poor brother.  Your brother was a hero who defeated a
terrible bandido and, in so doing, did me a great personal favor since
this bandido made claims on a territory that is under my control."

"Perhaps so, but this is a private war."

"No, senor, it is not a private war.  It is a war between my fellow
countrymen and the gringos."

"You forget, General, I am also American."

"Si, you are Americano because of the injustice of history.  But your
soul is Mexicano.  And anyway, this war is my war, patriotism or no."

"How is this so?"

"It is my war because of the murder of my men," Pedro said.  "Three
men, innocent travelers who happened upon the dead drivers and guards
of two freight wagons, were set upon by gringos who burst upon them
like demons from hell, shooting them down without so much as one
question.  Now, I ask you, Excelente, what of my men?"

"Si, I have heard of these ... innocent ... travelers," Juan said,
making a derisive sneer of the word "innocent" by setting it apart from
the rest of the sentence.  "I have heard they killed the wagon men and
were stealing the goods when they were set upon by the gringos."

"But this is not true.  Do you think my men would steal such things as
were in those wagons?  Bah!"  Pedro said, spitting on the ground.  "It
would shame them ... it would shame me, their general, for them to
steal washboards and ladies' corsets."

"Perhaps so," Juan agreed, deciding it was better to keep his real
opinion to himself.  "But whatever happened to your men is of no
consequence to the war between Senor Poindexter and myself.  I thank
you for your kind offer of help, but I will not need it."

"You do not take my offer, even though you know that the pistoleros who
killed my poor men have gone to work for Poindexter?"

"I have heard that Poindexter offered them a job but they refused,"
Juan said.  "I am told that they are going to work for Senor Clark."

"But it is the same thing.  Clark is also a gringo, no?  And he owns a
ranch ... the Tumbling C?"

"Rancho Trinidad and Tumbling C have peacefully coexisted for many
years," Juan said.  "Senor Clark is not my enemy."

"He is not your enemy, yet he is a gringo, and he has hired two
pistoleros.  I think you may be making a mistake.  Once more, I am
offering my help."

"And again, General, I thank you for your offer," Juan said.  "But I
must decline."

Pedro's eyes narrowed, and for one long moment Juan thought it was
going to become a shoot-out.  Then, suddenly and inexplicably, Pedro
laughed.  As before when he laughed, his two companions laughed with
him.

"Very well, Don Juan de la Montoya.  Fight the war by yourself.  But
when you find that things are not as you wish them to be, do not come
to me for help.  By then it will be too late."

"I understand," Juan said.  He turned and walked to his horse with
every muscle in his body twitching.  He could almost feel a gun pointed
at his back, and he wondered if he would live to mount his horse, or if
Pedro would shoot him down.

"Excelente," Pedro called.

Here it comes, Juan thought, and he bunched the muscles between his
shoulders, as if by that action he could stop a bullet.

"Si?"  he answered without turning around.

"Vaya con Dios, senor."

"Si, General.  Vaya con Dios."

Guzman

Although Win and Joe frequently shared a hotel room to save money, when
they could afford it they would sometimes take two hotel rooms because,
according to Win, Joe's snoring sounded like "a steam-powered
sawmill."

Tonight was such a night.  After securing a room for each of them and
having supper with Win, Joe found a friendly card game and played a few
hands.  He also had a few beers, but he turned down the offers from the
women.  It wasn't that he didn't find any of the women attractive.  It
was just that, seeing Katie McGallagher again for the first time in
several years left him in a pensive mood, not a mood conducive to
spending the night with a soiled dove.  That same sense of melancholy
also affected his game, so after four losing hands in a row he said
good-bye to the table and walked across the street to the hotel.  He
waved at the desk clerk, then went upstairs to his room to turn in
early.

Once in his room, Joe took off his boots and clothes, then turned the
lamp all the way down so that only a faint glimmer emanated from the
mantel.  He lay on his bed, in his underwear, with his hands laced
behind his head, staring morosely into the darkness that had gathered
just under the ceiling.

There had been many times over the last several years that memories of
the past--and regrets over the present--managed to sneak into his
thoughts.

Normally he was pretty good about shutting them out, but tonight he
couldn't do so.

Where would he be right now, he wondered, if there hadn't been a war?

For one thing, his folks would still be alive.  They wouldn't have been
murdered if there hadn't been a war.  And they hadn't been that old
when they were murdered, so Joe was certain they would still be
around.

He and his pa would, no doubt, be partners in the farm.  Win wouldn't
be there; Win had already told him he was going to leave as soon as he
could bring their mother around to the idea of him going off on his
own.

But Joe would still be there.  He and his pa would've bought the Boyer
place.  Joe knew Mr. Boyer wanted to sell his farm, and it lay right
next to the Coulter farm.  It was good land too.  And it would have
almost doubled the size of the Coulter farm.  That would have given
them a farm that was plenty large enough to support two families.

And Joe would have a family.  He would've married Katie Ann
McGallagher, probably in the St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church, Katie
Ann and her family being Catholic.  They would have had a couple of
kids by now, he was sure of that.

If they had had a boy, Joe would have named him Caleb.  He was partial
to the name Caleb.  He thought it had a good sound ... the sound of a
man who worked the soil.  Caleb would be twelve years old now, plenty
old enough to be helping out around the place.  Joe was doing a man's
work by the time he was twelve.

The second one would be a girl.  Joe smiled.  A daughter.  Imagine him,
with a daughter.  He would let Katie name the girl.  Maybe something
like Cindy.  That was a pretty name.  He sure hoped Cindy would look
like Katie.  But, then, he was sure she would have.

Joe, Katie, Caleb, and Cindy.  They'd make a fine-looking family,
riding into town in a buckboard.

A family.

It was funny, he thought.  It was as if he had an entire family
missing: the son and daughter he never had, grandchildren and a
connection to the future that would never be.  One hundred, two hundred
years from now, the world would be going about its business, wholly
populated by the descendants of people he met every day.  But there
would be nothing of himself in that future.  Whatever there was of Joe
Coulter, from a thousand generations past to the present, would end
with him.

Suddenly, Joe felt a profound sense of sadness, as if the war had
killed not only his parents, but his children as well.  And with that,
all that would have been of him, from now until the end of time.

"Joe?"  a voice called, interrupting his reverie.  "Joe, are you still
awake?"

Joe reached over to turn up the lamp.  The room was filled with its
subdued glow.

"The door's open, Katie Ann," he said.

The door opened and Katie stepped inside, then pushed the door closed
behind her.  She stood there for a moment, bathed golden in the
wavering flame.

"You were expecting me to come," she said.

"More like, hoping you would come."

"I was in my room, over the saloon, looking out onto the street," she
said.  "I saw you walk across the street and go into the hotel, so I
... I just took a chance and came on over."

"I'm glad."

"Do you mind if I sit on the edge of the bed?"  she asked, crossing the
room and sitting down before he could answer.

When she sat on the bed beside him, Joe could see that she wasn't
wearing all the makeup she had been wearing when he saw her earlier.

The effect was to give her a much softer look--though, without the
makeup, he could also tell that the years, and her hard life, were
already beginning to take their toll on her.  She was barely over
thirty, Joe knew, but her face had the lines of a woman of forty or
more.  But it was her eyes that told the whole story.  Her eyes were
very old.

Katie was examining Joe as critically as he was examining her, and
because Joe was half-naked, Katie had more to look at.  She gasped as
she saw the many scars and marks on his body.  One scar, a long,
raised, purple welt, snaked its way from just below the left nipple all
the way around to his side.  Katie put her fingers on it, very lightly,
then traced its length.

"Oh, my," she said.  "What a terrible scar.  How did you get that?"

"A drunken cowboy in San Angelo," Joe answered.  "He tried to carve me
up."

"What happened?"

"I shot him," Joe answered easily.

"Joe," Katie said, changing the subject then, "tell me what you are
doing here.  Why have you and Win come?"

"We've come for you, actually," Joe answered.

"What?  You mean, you knew I was here?"

"We didn't know that Katie Ann McGallagher was here.  But we did know
that Cat Clay was here.  Cat Clay is the one we have come after."

Now Katie looked confused.  "And why is that?"  she asked.  "I've done
nothing wrong that the law should be looking for me."

Joe chuckled.  "The law?  You really don't know anything about us if
you think we are with the law," he said.

"If not the law, who?"

"Marcus Kirby is paying us to find you and take you back to him."

"Marcus!"  Katie said.  "Sweet Jesus, I'd forgotten all about
Marcus."

"You may have forgot him, but he sure ain't forgot you.  He wants you
back.  And he wants you to know that he forgives you."

"He forgives me?"

"That's what he said."

Katie's face grew hard.  "That's damn big of him."

"Don't be too hard on him.  Tellin' you he forgives you is just his way
of lettin' you know you'd be welcome."

"Well, I can't go back.  Not now."

"Don't worry none about Poindexter," Joe said.  "If you want to go
back, I promise you, Poindexter won't be a problem."

"You don't understand.  I don't want to go back," Katie said.

"Yes, I can see that you've got it so much nicer here," Joe said
sarcastically.  "And I'm sure that Poindexter treats you better."

"You don't understand."

"Not my place to understand," Joe said.

"If you took me with you, not back to Marcus Kirby, but to be with you,
Joe Coulter, I'd leave.  I would leave in a heartbeat."

Joe didn't answer.

"Yes, well, I can see that isn't going to happen," Katie said after a
long pause.

"Katie Ann, if we could go back, I mean, really go back, by some magic
trick make it 1861 again, I would do it.  But now ... the life my
brother and I lead?  We're on the run as often as not.  I can't take
you with me, because there is nowhere to go."

"I know," Katie said quietly.  "I know.  Perhaps if I had a little more
of you to remember," she suggested.

"More of me to remember?"

"Yes," Katie said.  "Joe, why didn't we ever ... I mean, why didn't you
and I ..."  The words hung, an incomplete question, but even as she
formed them, her hands were beginning to move down from the scar across
Joe's naked skin and rippling muscles.  They dipped under the sheet,
then went to his underwear and slipped inside.

Joe felt her long cool fingers close around him, and a web of flame
shot through his body.  He was instantly erect, and he reached for
her.

"I mean, if we had been together, if there had been a completeness
between us ..."  Again, she let the words dangle.

Katie's eyes grew sultry, and she began taking off her clothes.  When
she was naked, she reached out to take his hand and guide it up her
leg, along the inner curve of her thigh, and finally into the thatch of
pubic hair.  She pulled his fingers into the hair and dragged them
through the little cleft.  He felt her slickness.

Katie pulled the sheet aside so she could see him.

"Oh," she said.  "How many times through all the years, and with all
the men I've had, have I thought of this.  And now ..."

"And now?"  Joe said.

"And now you are here.  And you are all mine."

Katie bent down, so close to him that her breath moved across his skin
like the most delicate silk.  In response, Joe put his hands to her
head and gently moved her to him, completing the last few inches.  Her
lips opened to take him.  As she worked on him with her mouth, his
hands continued to tease her distended nipples.

Joe let her work on him for a few minutes, feeling the ripples of
pleasure course through his body, stopping them at the last moment.

Finally he pulled himself from her mouth.  She looked up in surprise,
hurt at being deprived.

"Let's finish it this way," Joe said, pushing her gently down onto the
bed.

"Yes," she moaned.

As Joe was positioning her, his fingers, once more, slid down through
the lips of her sex, teasing, probing, stroking, and massaging until
Katie was squirming in uncontrollable desire.

"Please!"  Katie said through clenched teeth.  "Joe, can't you see?  I
can't wait anymore!"

Joe moved over her, then went in, feeling the sensation of total
invasion.  As she writhed in ecstasy beneath him, he put his mouth to
her neck.  He could feel her neck muscles twitching, and he opened his
mouth to suck on the creamy white flesh.  He could hear the gasps and
moans of pleasure, and for the moment, all memories of the past, all
thoughts of what might have been, were swept aside.  He was man and she
was woman.  She was every women he had ever known over the years
wrapped up into this one beautiful creature beneath him, and she
continued to raise her hips wildly to meet his every thrust.

Katie's gasps and moans rose in intensity, and Joe knew by the
increased thrashing of her hips, and the spasmodic action of her body,
that she was nearing orgasm.  He stayed with her, and when her orgasm
hit, the contractions of her sex pulled at him, sucking the juices from
deep within his body.  When they were both spent and satiated, they lay
on his bed, naked and breathless in the soft golden glow of
lamplight.

9

Win and Joe had eaten supper together before Joe went up to his room.

Supper was steak and beans, the beans liberally seasoned with hot
peppers, and washed down with mugs of beer.

"Them beans'll flat set you afire," Joe had said.  "But damn me if they
ain't about the tastiest things I've put in my mouth in quite a
while."

Win laughed.  "Joe, you've never met the food you didn't find tasty.

That's your problem."

Joe smiled sheepishly.  "Well now, Big Brother, I reckon you got a
point there."

After supper, Joe had listlessly played a few hands of poker then left
the saloon and went back to the hotel, telling Win that he was tired
and was going to turn in early.

Win decided to stay in the saloon, and he was sitting at his table
nursing a beer when, about ten minutes after Joe left, he saw Katie Ann
McGallagher coming down the stairs.

And it really was Katie Ann McGallagher he saw, and not Cat Clay.  The
woman who came down from the second floor where the women of the bar
conducted their "business" then walked through the saloon and on
outside didn't look at all like one of the business girls.  She wasn't
wearing makeup, nor was she in one of the garish dresses the other
saloon girls wore.  In fact, she was so plainly dressed that she
managed to pass through all the men in the saloon without garnering so
much as a sidelong glance from anyone.

For a moment, Win wondered if his brother and Katie had made some
arrangement to meet later.  But he knew they couldn't have.  From the
time they found out she was here until just a few moments ago, Joe had
not left Win's side.  If they had made some sort of arrangement to meet
later it would have had to be by way of some silent signal, passed
between them.

Win looked across the room to see if Poindexter was anywhere around.

He didn't see him, and figured that Poindexter had probably ridden out
to his ranch by now.

Win picked up his beer mug and held it out toward the door, the street,
and the hotel on the other side of the street.  He made a silent and
imperceptible toast with the mug.

"Whatever happens between you two tonight," he said under his breath,
"I hope it works out all right for you."

As WIN DRANK HIS SOLITARY TOAST, A MAN CAME INTO the saloon, stood just
inside the door for a second, then stepped over to the bar.  He moved
down to the far end where he could see the whole saloon, and from this
vantage point, examined everyone through dark, beady eyes.  He was
small, wiry, and dark, with a narrow nose and thin lips.  He used his
left hand to hold his glass while his right hand stayed down beside the
handle of his pistol.  The pistol, Win noticed, was worn in such a way
as to allow for a quick draw.

Of all the people in the saloon, only Win seemed to have actually
noticed the man, and he studied him quietly as he drank his beer.  He
knew that this man was about to kill someone--knew it as clearly as if
he had been dressed in a black robe, carrying a reaper and wearing a
death's mask.

The batwing doors swung open a moment later, and two men came into the
saloon.  Both of them looked as if they had been long on the trail, and
both of them were wearing badges.  They too stood just inside the
entrance, looking around the room.  One of them had eyes to match his
gray hair and mustache.  He was the senior deputy.  The other was much
younger, and from the dark hair and eyes, Win guessed that he was
Mexican.

Win saw the lawmen study the room, then he saw their gaze find the man
at the other end of the bar.  Suddenly their muscles stiffened, and
when Win looked at the man at the bar, he realized that this was what
he had been waiting for.

"Tucker," the older man said.  "You're under arrest."

"Arrest for what?"

"I got a witness says you're the one who shot Esteban Montoya."

"Hell," Tucker said jeeringly.  "Whoever said it was against the law to
shoot a Mexican?"  The saloon patrons laughed at Tucker's joke.

"You wanna tell that to the judge, up in Lordsburg?"

"Look, Deputy, why don't you just take care of the folks up in your
part of the country and leave us alone, down here, to work out our own
problems."

"Yeah!"  half a dozen other voices chorused.  "What's it to you whether
or not we kill us a Mexican ever' now an' then?"

"I have to take you in.  You going' to come quiet?"  the deputy
asked.

"I got no argument with you, Deputy," Tucker answered.  His voice was
high then, and grating.  In a world without weapons he would have been
a pathetic figure among men; but his long, thin fingers; delicate
hands; and small, wiry body were perfectly suited for the deadly skills
required by a gunman.

"Take off your gun belt," the deputy ordered.

Tucker put his drink on the bar, then turned toward the deputy.  The
younger man stepped several feet to one side while still facing
Tucker.

He bent his knees slightly and held his hand in readiness over his own
pistol.

"I don't think I want to take off my gun belt," Tucker said.

Win saw the deputy lick his lips nervously.  Then he watched the
deputy's eyes, the narrowing of the corners, the glint of the pupils,
then the resignation.  The deputy started for his gun.

Tucker was fast as a snake.  By the time he had his pistol up, it was
spitting a finger of flame six inches from the end of the barrel.  It
roared a second time, even over the shots fired by the two deputies,
and a large cloud of smoke billowed up to temporarily obscure the
action.  When the smoke drifted up to the ceiling a few seconds later,
Tucker was still standing, the two deputies lying dead on the floor.

"Is there anybody in here who ain't ready to say this here was a fair
fight?"  Tucker asked the others, the smoking gun still in his hand.

"Hell, Tucker, you want me to say the words for you, I will.  We all
seen it.  They come in lookin' for you, and they forced you into
drawin'.

It was a fair fight, all right."

"Thought you folks might see it like that," Tucker said.

Suddenly Tucker realized that Win had been staring quietly at him, and
instinctively seemed to know that he had been staring at him ever since
he came into the room.  He put his gun away, then turned toward Win and
pointed at him.

"What about you, mister?"  he said.  "You willin' to say it was a fair
fight?"

"I don't intend to say anything, period," Win answered.

"You been staring at me ever since I come in here," Tucker growled.

"What is it you're starin' at?"

"I haven't quite figured that out myself," Win replied.

Tucker's eyes blinked as he tried to decipher the meaning of Win's
comment.  Finally, he either decided that the comment was innocent, or
he decided that he didn't want to carry the challenge any farther.

With a dismissive shrug of his shoulder, he turned toward the bar.

"I'll have another whiskey," he said.

"Sure thing, Mr.  Tucker," the bartender replied.  "Sure thing."

Guzman schoolhouse, the next morning Rose Clark dipped a cloth in the
bucket of water, then began washing the blackboards in the single-room
schoolhouse where she taught.  When she learned that her father had
hired Win and Joe Coulter, she had tried desperately to talk him out of
it.  She had tried to make her father think it was because she wanted
to keep him out of any war that might erupt between Trinidad and
Inferno.  But, in fact, it was because she didn't want to see Win
again.  She didn't think she could face the shame of seeing him
again.

As she recalled that night with him, her blood warmed and her breathing
grew shallow.  Oh, how wonderful it had been ... how much she wished
she could do it again.  If only he were here right now, they could pull
the shades and lock the doors.  No one would see them, no one would
know.

And then, when Rose realized the extent of her thoughts, her face
flamed in embarrassment and she dipped the cloth in the bucket and
began washing the blackboard with renewed vigor.

Why had she gone to him that night?  Why had she thrown herself at
him?

What he must think of her ... and yet, surely he could think no less of
her than she thought of herself.

Rose was not that kind of woman.  She had been intimate with only one
other man, and that was Johnny Payne, the man she thought she would
marry.

She had given in to his incessant demands for sex before they were
married, and two weeks later Johnny was thrown from a horse and
killed.

For a long time Rose carried the guilt of his death in her heart, for
she was sure the accident was God's way of punishing the two of them
for violating His law.

Then, the other night ... oh, what did come over her?  When she pulled
herself together, later that night, she drew comfort from the fact that
she and her father would soon be returning to Guzman, and the Tumbling
C, and she would never see him again.

Now, much to her chagrin, she learned that, not only had they come to
Guzman, they had agreed to work for her father ... which meant they
would be out at the ranch.  There was no way she could avoid him now!

"Senorita Clark?"

The disjointed thoughts tumbled through Rose's mind while she covered
the board with broad sweeps, watching the slate grow black under each
pass as the white film of chalk was cleaned away.

"Senorita Clark?"

Rose suddenly realized that someone was calling her name, had actually
called her twice, though she had been so lost in her own thoughts that
it just now got through to her.  She turned toward the sound and saw a
beautiful young Mexican girl standing just inside the doorway of the
schoolhouse.

"Yes?"  Rose asked.  She put the cloth back in the bucket.

"Excuse me, senorita, for interrupting you," the girl said.  "You are a
teacher and I know you are muy busy."

Rose laughed and pointed to the blackboard, half-cleaned, half-dusted
with chalk.  "I'd hardly call this very important.  Believe me, it's
work that can be interrupted," she said.

"I called your name, but you did not hear me."

"I'm sorry I didn't hear you the first time.  I was lost in thought,
I'm afraid."  She ran her hand through her hair and cleared her throat,
then made a motion of invitation with her hand.  "Please, come in.

What can I do for you, dear?"

The girl came into the room and, at Rose's suggestion, sat at one of
the desks.  She looked around the room and smiled.  "It is nice, your
school," she said.

"Thank you."

"My name is Dona Carlotta Maria de Alacon Sanchez."

"Heavens, that's quite a name," Rose teased.

Carlotta laughed, her black eyes flashing, then she blushed.  "I am
told it is proper for one to tell a teacher the full name.  I am called
Carlotta."

Suddenly Rose realized who Carlotta was, and the smile left her face,
replaced by a look of concern.

"Oh, you poor child," she said.  "You were the fiancee of Senor
Montoya's brother, weren't you?"

"Si," Carlotta said.  Her eyes darted down quickly.  Rose envied the
young girl her lashes, for they were as long and as delicate as a black
lace fan.

"I was sorry to hear about that," Rose said.  "I don't know who did it,
but I do hope they are caught and punished."

"Please, Senorita Clark, these are bad times," Carlotta said.  "The
Mexicanos and the Norteamericanos are in ... how do you say?  ... lose
Campos opuestos?"

"Opposite camps," Rose said.

"Si.  Opposite camps," Carlotta said, nodding.  "But Senor Montoya says
that your father, Senor Clark, and he are not enemies."

"No, they are not."

Now Carlotta smiled broadly.  "And so, we are not enemies either, you
and I."

Rose nodded.  "I agree.  We are not enemies.  Now, tell me, Carlotta,
why are you here?  Is there something you want?  Something I can do for
you?"

"Si," Carlotta replied.  She folded her hands on the desk in front of
her, then drew a deep breath.  "I ask to go to your school."

"You?"

"Si.  I can read and write in my language, and some in English.  But I
wish to learn more."

"Oh, I don't know," Rose said.  "My students are all much younger ...

from the first grade until the eighth.  I don't even have books for
someone of your age."

"Please, senorita," Carlotta interrupted.  "I am older, yes, but I do
not have much school.  My father took me from the school and made me
learn many other things ... how to act like a lady, how to make lace,
how to smile and dance for the men."

Rose smiled.

"But now I wish to learn things I can use," Carlotta continued.  "If
you say yes, I will work hard for you.  I will help you watch over the
little ones.  I will scrub the blackboard for you.  I will carry books,
I will ..."

Rose laughed and held up her hand.  "Goodness, child, it isn't
necessary for you to do all that," she said.  "If you wish to attend my
school, I will be very happy to have you."

Carlotta let out a squeal of delight.  "Oh, thank you!"

"Be here tomorrow morning," Rose said.

"I will be!"  Carlotta promised.  She got up from the desk and hurried
to the door, then stopped and looked back.  The happy smile on her face
was temporarily gone, replaced with a more serious look.  "And,
Senorita Clark?"

Rose looked up at her.  "Yes?"

"Let us say that here, in this classroom, all of us, Mexicano and
Norteamericano, will be with friends."

Rose agreed, smiling warmly.

Carlotta's face lit up in another smile, then she waved happily and
left the building.

10

"We're not taking her back," Joe told Win.  "She don't want to go, and
we ain't going' to make her go."

"All right," Win agreed easily.

"That's it?"  Joe asked, surprised at Win's easy acquiescence.  "You're
not going' to try an' talk me into it for the rest of the money?"

"Nope."

"What about the money he's already given us?"

"We'll call that expenses," Win said.

Joe smiled.  "Yeah," he agreed.  "Expenses."

"So, what's going' to come of her?"  Win asked.  "Better yet, what's
going' to come of the two of you?"

Joe shook his head.  "Don't know as I know the answer to that
question," he said.

"Joe?"

"Yes?"

"I know that all during the time we were with Quantrill, you had your
heart set on going back home, marrying that girl, and taking up farming
again.  Sometimes, I think I'm the reason you didn't.  I've thought
about that some over the last several years.  I want you to know how
sorry I am."

"Hell, Win, you weren't the cause," Joe said.  "I was a big boy, even
back then.  If I'd've wanted to stay in Missouri and farm, I reckon I
would've done it.  The truth is, I guess too many things happened, and
I sort of changed, somewhere along the way."

"You mean, you don't blame me?"

"Never have, never will."

Win's face broke into a big smile.  "I'm mighty glad about that," he
said.  The smile faded.  "But that still hasn't answered my question.

What happens now?"

"You mean with Katie Ann and me?"

"Yes."

"I'm going' to need to give it considerable thought," Joe said.

"And Poindexter?"

Joe snorted.  "That son of a bitch don't figure into my thinkin' at
all."

"He figures into my thinking," Win said.  "I look at him and I see
money."

"How?  You mean by working for him, instead of John Henry Clark?"

"No, no, we'll work for Clark," Win said.  "Fact is, to do what I have
in mind, the best place for us to be is working with Clark."

"What exactly do you have in mind?"

"Seems to me like, with this range war going on between Trinidad and
Inferno, there's going to be a few cows stolen.  I figure Montoya will
steal from Poindexter, and I know Poindexter will steal from Montoya.

With so many cows moving back and forth, it ought to be fairly easy for
us to get a few for ourselves."

"And do what with them?  Sell them to Clark?"  Joe asked.

Win shook his head.  "No, that would just draw Clark into it, and it's
best we keep him out of it.  But last night while you were turning in
early, I did a little checking around.  There's a town across the
border in Mexico called Polomas.  The Mexican government has an agent
there.  From what I hear, the agent is buying all the cattle he can get
his hands on.

I'm going to go down there and make a deal of some cows."

"Aren't they likely to start asking questions when two different brands
show up in the same herd?"  Joe asked.

"If they start asking questions, I'll give them answers."

"What kind of answers?"

"Why, the kind of answers they will want to hear, Little Brother," Win
said easily.

Polomas

A dozen adobe structures, baking in the blows of the hot, Mexican sun,
framed a plaza where the town's well provided the only water for
several miles in all directions.  A few of the citizens saw Win's
arrival, watching him with dark, obsidian eyes, staring out from under
the large sombreros they wore.  Because he arrived in the middle of
siesta, however, most didn't even look up, but lay stretched out in
what shade they could find to continue their afternoon nap.

Win rode to the well, then pulled up a bucket of water.  He satisfied
his own craving as his horse slaked its thirst by drinking from the
watering trough.  When he had drunk his fill, he wet his bandanna and
wiped the dust and dirt from his face and neck.  Finally, somewhat
refreshed from the long, hot ride, he looked around the square until he
saw what he was looking for.

One of the low, flat-roofed adobe buildings differed from the others,
not in construction or elegance, but only because of the red, white,
and green Mexican flag, which hung limply from a pole in front of the
building.

The building was also guarded by a private in the Mexican army.

Win remounted, rode over to the building, then dismounted and snapped
his fingers at the private.

"You, Private," he said irritably.  "Is this any way to greet a man who
has the endorsement of the leader of your country, el presidents
Porfirio Diaz?  Take care of my horse, at once!"

At the sound of Diaz's name, the soldier moved quickly to take the
reins from one who spoke with such authority.  A captain, seeing this,
came over to Win.

"I beg your pardon, senor," the captain said.  "But who are you and
what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?"  Win asked.  He looked around at the sleeping
little village, then at the barracks where the troops were billeted.

"I am here at the invitation of your government.  Now, I have a
question for you, Capiten.  Why wasn't I met by a military escort as
the presidents promised?"

"I'm sorry, senor," the Mexican captain answered, obviously cowed by
Win's demeanor.  He spoke in rapid Spanish, and soldiers started
running in all directions.

"Where is your comandante?"  Win demanded.

"Please, senor, this way," the captain said.  "I have sent for the
colonel."

Win followed the captain into the barracks.  The captain showed him
into a reception room, surprisingly elegant inside, when compared to
the outside of the building.  They were met by a white-jacketed orderly
and shown to a table.  Another orderly poured a glass of brandy for
him.

"Well, now," Win said, holding up the glass and letting it catch a
sunbeam to explode in a brilliant burst of light, "this is more like
it."

The captain and orderlies left Win alone for a few moments and he
leaned back in the chair to look around the room.  A picture of
President Diaz hung on one wall.  He saw a humidor of fine cigars on
the table, and he took four, putting three of them in his pocket, then
biting the tip off the fourth.  He looked for a cuspidor and, seeing
none, spit the end on the carpet.  He had just lit it when the
comandante breezed in, still buttoning his tunic, exchanging rapid
Spanish with the captain who had shown Win in.

"I am Colonel Antonio Morales, senor," the colonel said, drawing to a
stop in front of Win and clicking his heels together ceremoniously.

The captain stood at rigid attention behind his colonel, the orderlies
behind the captain.  "And you are, senor?"

"Ah, yes, Colonel Morales," Win said, without answering the colonel's
question.  He examined the end of his cigar for a moment, then held it
up.

"An excellent cigar, Colonel.  But then, Presidente Diaz did say you
were a man of good taste."

Colonel Morales beamed proudly.  "El Presidente Diaz spoke my name?"

"Of course he did, Colonel," Win said.  "When I approached him about
the cattle deal I have in mind, he said you were the one to see."

Colonel Morales saw that Win's brandy glass was nearly empty, and he
snapped his fingers at one of the orderlies.  The orderly picked up the
brandy decanter and Win's snifter was refilled.

"Senor, I am most embarrassed," Colonel Morales said.  "But His
Excellency has not contacted me about you.  I must confess that I do
not know what this is about."

"Of course he has not contacted you," Win said.  "The whole idea was to
keep this operation as quiet as possible."  Win looked at the others in
the room.  "So, if you don't mind, could you tell these other men to
leave so that you and I may speak alone?"

"Si, senor, at once," Colonel Morales said.  Making an impatient wave
of dismissal, Morales quickly cleared the room.

Win waited until he was certain the others were gone before he spoke.

"Colonel Morales, do you know a man who lives in Guzman, New Mexico,
named Phillipe Sanchez?"

"Phillipe Sanchez?"  Morales replied, his face registering curious
surprise at the name.  "Si, he is my cousin."

"Phillipe sent me to you."

"Phillipe?  Not President Diaz?"

Win shook his head.  "No, that was for the benefit of your captain and
your men," he said.  "What I am about to tell you now is for you
only."

"I see," Colonel Morales said.  The tenor of his voice had cooled.

"And what is this about?"

"Money, Colonel Morales," Win said.  "A great deal of money for you, if
you are smart.  And your cousin says that you are a smart man."

Morales nodded.  "I would not want to accuse my cousin of speaking
falsely.  Tell me, senor ... I still do not know your name, how is this
money to be made?"

"Cattle."

"Cattle?"

"You are buying cattle for the Mexican government, aren't you?"

"Si."

"And you are paying twenty-five dollars a head?"

"Si."

"Colonel, I am going to sell you prime beef on the hoof for fifteen
dollars a head.  You, in turn, will tell your government that it is
costing you twenty dollars a head.  Your government will be pleased to
be getting cattle for five dollars under the going price.  They will be
saving money, while you will be making money.  At five dollars a head,
Colonel Morales, it won't be long until you are a wealthy man."

"And my cousin?  What is his percentage?"

"From my share I will give your cousin one dollar per head," Win
explained.  "You will be able to keep all the money you make for
yourself."

He smiled.  "So you see?  We can all profit."

Colonel Morales did a quick calculation in his head, then smiled
broadly.  "Senor, are you certain you can make these cattle
available?"

"Absolutely," Win promised.  "Are you sure you can come up with the
money?"

"Si.  In two weeks I will have the payroll for every military person in
northern Sonora.  I will use money from that payroll to pay for the
cattle.  Once I have sold the cattle to my government, I will replace
the money."

"Sounds like a workable plan to me," Win said.

Morales poured them each another glass of brandy, then he held his
glass up to click it against Win's glass.  "To cattle, senor," he
said.

"And to a profitable business between our two great countries."

Win laughed.  "Our countries, hell," he said.  "I'm drinking to a
profitable business between you and me."

"And what our countries do not know will not hurt them, eh, senor?"

Morales asked.

"Believe me, Colonel, they'll never feel a thing," Win said.

When Win returned to Guzman, he reported on his trip to Joe.

"We've got a deal," he said.  "All we need now are a few cows."

"I've already made a start," Joe said.

"How's that?"

"I've found a box canyon out in the Potrillo Mountains.  It's open
range, nobody uses it.  I've already got fifteen head of Inferno cows
in there, and I saw another five head of Trinidad cows down by the
south breaks.  We can move those in with no one the wiser."

"Damn!  Even counting Sanchez's cut, that's two hundred eighty dollars
already," Win said.  "You know something?  This might turn out to be
one of the best deals we've ever run into."

11

One of the things that made the Tumbling C a valuable piece of
realestate was the stream that ran through the place.  The creek was
little more than a seasonal bayou, a runoff from a larger stream when
John Henry first began ranching.  But John Henry connected the low
spots to divert the stream and the result was a year-round supply of
water.

Mike McLeod and Leon Thomas, riders for the Tumbling C, stopped at the
stream to let their horses drink, and to dip their hats in the water,
then pour the water over themselves to cool down, for it was a hot day
and they had been working hard.

Not satisfied to pour water over himself, Mike pulled Leon's collar to
one side and poured water down his back.

"Hey, cut that out!"  Leon shouted and tossed a hatful of water at
Mike.  The two friends played for a moment in the water when one of
them suddenly looked up and saw a man on a horse, just watching them.

When he realized that he had been seen, he started riding slowly toward
them.

"Hey, Mike, who's that?"  Leon asked.

Mike wiped his nose with the back of his hand.  "I don't know," he
said.  "But he's sure one ugly son of a bitch."

"Is he workin' for Mr.  Clark?"

"If he is, I ain't seen 'im before."

"What's your name, mister?"  Leon asked when the rider reached them.

"The name's Tucker," the rider said.

"Well, Mr.  Tucker, what can we do for you?"

Tucker reached behind him and lifted a satchel bag.  He tossed it on
the ground in front of the two riders.

"That bag is full of blasting powder," Tucker said.  "What you can do
is put it over there, under that rock, then light the fuse."

"What?"  Mike asked.  He looked over at the rock.  "You don't want to
do that, Tucker.  That would cause the whole side of that little
hillock there to slide down into the creek."

"Yes," Tucker said easily.

"Don't you understand?  That would close the creek off.  There wouldn't
be no water downstream.  Cows would start dying of thirst."

"Yes," Tucker said again.

"Mike, I don't know who the hell this fella is, but seems to me that's
what he wants to happen."

Tucker smiled evilly.  "Smart man," he said.  "Now, put the blasting
powder where I told you to and set off the charge."

"I ain't doin' nothin' of the kind," Leon said.  "You can just go to
hell, far as I'm concerned."

Tucker's face had been totally devoid of expression from the very
beginning.  He had sat quietly in the saddle, not reacting to anything
they said to him.  There was no change of expression in his face, nor
any abrupt move to give the two boys the slightest hint of what was
about to happen.

One moment Tucker was sitting there quietly, the next instant there was
a gun in his hand.  He fired twice, and Mike and Leon went down.

Jerry Tate heard the two gunshots, dry, flat thumps which echoed
through the valley.  The shots came from the direction of Mike and
Leon, and Jerry wondered if the boys had seen a snake.

He chuckled.  Leon was deathly afraid of snakes.  And he was
nondiscriminating in his fear.  A nonpoisonous snake could generate as
much fear as a rattler, and Jerry had once seen him empty his revolver
shooting at a garden snake.

Then the smile left his face.  There was something ominous-sounding
about those two shots, the way they came one right on top of the
other.

This wasn't the kind of shooting a person would do for target-shooting,
or snake-shooting.

Curious, and just a little anxious, Jerry rode toward the stream and
the sound of the pistol shots.  Less than a minute later, there was
another explosion.  This explosion was much louder than the previous
gunshots had been.  It was heavy sounding, and when the concussion wave
rolled across him, Jerry could actually feel it in his stomach.

"What the hell was that?!"  Jerry asked aloud, though there was no one
but his horse to hear him.

A puff of smoke gushed up from behind the crown of the next hill,
formed into a crescent shape, then drifted away.

Jerry spurred his horse into a gallop.  When he crested the hill, he
saw that the cut through which the stream flowed had been blocked off
by half the side of the embankment.  Then he saw Mike and Leon, lying
on the ground.

"Mike!  Leon!"

Arriving on the scene a moment later, he swung down from his horse,
then ran over to them.  He squatted down over Leon and saw immediately
that he was dead.  He heard Mike groan, so he left Leon and hurried
over to Mike.

"Mike!  What happened here?  Did you two do this?"

"Tucker," Mike said, forcing the words through teeth clenched in
pain.

"What?"

"Tu ... Tu ..."  Mike started, then, with a gurgling final breath, he
died.

"You killed them?"  Poindexter asked when Tucker returned to Inferno.

"Yes," Tucker answered.  He walked over to Poindexter's liquor cabinet
without being invited and poured himself a drink.

"Anybody see you?"

"No."

"What about the water?"

"I closed it down."

"Ha!  Well, it won't take 'em too long to get it open again, but that's
not important.  The important thing is more'n likely Clark is going to
think Montoya did it.  Good job, Tucker.  Good job."

"Want anything else done?"  Tucker asked, pouring himself another
drink.

"Yes.  I want you to go with me."

Tucker looked up.  "Go with you?  Go where?"

"To meet a fella," Poindexter answered.

For some time now, Win had been aware that two men were dogging them,
riding parallel with them, and, for the most part, staying out of
sight.

They were good, but Win was better.  He had caught onto them as soon as
he and Joe had crossed the border.

They were pushing thirty-five head of cattle south to Polomas, there to
meet with Colonel Morales.  Thirty-five head times fifteen dollars was
525 dollars.  Not bad for a week's work.  Thirty of the cows came from
Inferno Ranch, five of them came from Trinidad.  None came from the
Tumbling C. Win and Joe were working for the Tumbling C, and long ago
they had made it a policy never to steal from anyone who, in good
faith, hired them.

"You see 'em, Win?"  Joe asked quietly.

"Been seem' them for some time now."

"Thought maybe you had."

"Look at the notch in the hill to our left," Win said.  "In just a
moment, they'll go through there."

Joe looked in the direction indicated by Win and, as Win had indicated,
saw the two riders moving quickly through the notch, slipping by so
quietly and expertly that only someone who was specifically looking for
them would have noticed.

"Who do you think they are?"  Joe asked.

"Could be some of Colonel Morales's men," Win answered.  "Or it could
be some of Bustamante's."

"What do you want to do?"  Joe asked.

"Keep the animals moving," Win said.  "I'll be back."

Win left the trail and, using a ridgeline for concealment, rode ahead
about a thousand yards.  He cut over to the gully the two men were
following, then dismounted, pulled his rifle from its boot, and climbed
onto a rocky ledge to wait for them.  He jacked a round into the
chamber.

Whoever the men were, Win had to give them credit.  They were actually
quite good.  They approached so skillfully he could barely hear them.

Not a word was being spoken, and the rocks which were being disturbed
by the horses' hooves were moving as lightly as if they were being
dislodged by some mountain creature.  Win watched, then saw them come
into view from around the bend.  He stood up suddenly.

"Caramba!"  one of the men exclaimed in a startled shout.  His horse
reared, and his hand started toward his pistol.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you!"  Win warned, raising his rifle to
his shoulder.

"Pedro, listen to the gringo!"  the other man said.  Both riders were
wearing large sombreros, colorful serapes, and crossed bandoliers,
bristling with shells.

The one who had started toward his pistol stopped his hand, then got
his horse under control.

"I don't know what you gents are after," Win said.  "But I don't aim to
take any chances.  I got some money comin' to me for these cows, and I
don't intend to let a couple of bandits take them from me."

"We are not bandidos, senor," one of the men said.

"Yeah, well, you're not buyers either, so I don't give a damn who, or
what, you are.  Like I said, I'm not takin' any chances, so drop your
guns and belts, then turn around and ride out of here."

"But, senor, there are bandits in this country.  It is not safe to be
without guns," one of the riders argued.

"You don't say," Win replied.  He made an impatient motion with the
barrel of his rifle.  "I said, shuck 'em."

Grumbling, and protesting their innocence, the two men got rid of their
weapons, dropping them onto the rocks with a clatter.

"You know where Polomas is?"  Win asked.

"Si," one of the men answered.  They were both glaring at Win with open
hatred.  "We know the village."

"Are you lost, senor?"  the other asked.  "We will show you the way."

"I know the way," Win said.  "I mention it because that's where I'm
taking your guns.  You'll find 'em with Colonel Morales."

"Colonel Morales?  Senor, if you give our guns to Colonel Morales, we
will never get them back."

"Colonel Morales is our enemy," the other said.  "He is the enemy of
the people."

"Yeah," Win said sarcastically.  "And I'm sure you two boys are the
friends of the people.  Now get."

The two Mexicans turned and started back up the gully.  Win fired at a
rock very near them and the whining echo of the bullet frightened the
horses, or the men, or both, and set them off at a gallop.  He waited
until they were some distance away, then he picked up their gun belts
and draped them across the saddle in front of him.

When he returned to Joe, he saw his brother patiently herding the cows
through the remainder of the draw.

"I heard a shot," Joe said.  It was more of an observation than a
question.

"I hurried them on a bit," Win answered without elaboration.

"Think we can get these cows delivered and be back in Guzman by
nightfall?"  Joe asked.

"Why, you got something' you want to do?"  Win replied.  He knew what
it was, he was just teasing his brother.

"I thought I might call on Katie Ann," Joe replied, not taking the
bait.

"Have you decided what you're going to do yet?"  Win asked.

"You mean am I going to take her back to Missouri and start up
farmin?"

"Yeah.  Are you?"

"I don't know," Joe said.  "I'll tell you this, Big Brother.  It's
tempting.  Lord, it's tempting."

"Joe, don't let me hold you back," Win said.  "It's not too late for
you to make a life for yourself.  If you want to do it, do it."

"Hell, Win, you ain't holdin' me back," Joe said.  "I coulda left
anytime I wanted before now, you know that.  The truth is, I've come to
like this way of life pretty much my own self.  We're going' to get
what for these cows?  Five hundred dollars or so?"

"Around that, yes."

"If I was farmin' in Missouri, that would be an entire year's corn
crop," Joe said.

"I know, but there's more to it than money, and you know it," Win
replied.

"You mean a wife, kids, settlin' down?"  Joe asked.

"Somethin' like that, yeah."

"I've thought of that too."

"And?"

"Like I told you before, Win.  I ain't quite made up my mind.  When I
do, you'll be the second one to know."

"Second?"

"I aim to tell Katie Ann first, one way or the other," Joe said.

When the wagon pulled into the area between the bunkhouse and the main
house, several of the cowboys, drawn by morbid curiosity, came over to
look at Mike's and Leon's bodies.  Jerry had come back immediately to
tell what had happened, then he and Deekus hitched up a wagon and went
out to retrieve the bodies.

"Look," one of the cowboys said quietly.  "Hell, last night Mike was
sleepin' in a bunk that close to me, I could reach out and touch
'im."

The cowboy shivered.  John Henry Clark was standing by the corral
fence.

"What'll we do with 'em now, Mr.  Clark?"  Deekus asked.

"Either one of 'em got relatives anywhere that you boys know of?"  John
Henry asked.

"Leon, he has a sister somewhere," one of the cowboys answered.

"Think she's back in Georgia or some such place."

"But you don't know for sure?"

"No, sir."

"What about Mike?"

"Mike told me he come from an orphanage in Denver.  He ain't got no
relatives a'tall."

"All right," John Henry replied.  "Deekus, get 'em in town to Fuller.

Tell him I said to bury 'em decent.  Nothing extravagant, but
decent."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Clark, would it be all right if we went into their things and
found 'em a clean shirt to be buried in?  Don't think they'd like bein'
buried like that."

"Sure," John Henry replied.  "And see if Leon has any letters
anywhere.

That sister may have written him."

"I doubt that, Mr.  Clark," Deekus said.

"Why?"

"Leon couldn't read.  Mike couldn't neither."

"Jerry, did you see who did it?"  John Henry asked.

"No, sir.  I just heard the gunshots, then a moment later, the powder
go off.  By the time I got there, the stream was already closed down
and Mike and Leon was on the ground."

"And you didn't see anyone?"

"No, sir."

"Did Mike or Leon say anything before they died?"

"Mike did," Jerry said.

"What did he say?"

"I'm not real sure."

"What did it sound like he said?"

"Sounded like he said ... 'tough luck."" John Henry sighed.  "Well,
that's not much help," he said.

"One thing good, Mr. Clark.  Whoever shut down the water didn't do
that good of a job," Deekus said.  "I took a look at it while I was out
there.  Three or four men with shovels can have it open again in no
more'n a couple of hours."

"Good.  Get some men started on it, will you?"

"Yes, sir.  Right away."

As John Henry walked back to the house, he saw his daughter returning
from town in the buckboard.  She could live in town if she wanted to,
there was a small house for the teacher, right beside the school.  But
it was only a couple of miles from the school to the ranch, and one of
the concessions she had made to her father in order to accept the job
was that she would continue to live at home.

"What is it, Dad?  What's going on?"  Rose asked as she stepped down
from the buckboard.

"Couple of our men were killed today," John Henry said.  He looked back
toward the wagon and saw some men coming out of the bunkhouse with
clean shirts.  "Mike and Leon."

"Oh!"  Rose said, putting her hand to her mouth.  She knew them.  They
were both younger than she, and she enjoyed watching them play around,
almost as if they were the younger brothers she never had.  "Who did
it, do you know?"

"No," John Henry said.  "Listen, honey, about your school ..."

"What about it?"

"Don't you think that, until all this is settled, it might be best to
sort of, well, stop going in for a while?"

"You mean just close the school?"

"Yes, if that's what it takes."

Rose shook her head.  "I can't do that, Dad.  Those children depend on
me.  What's happening to them now will affect them for the rest of
their lives.  I can't abandon them, just because I'm afraid."

John Henry put his arms around her and pulled her to him.

"All right then, promise me this," he said.  "Promise me that you will
be very, very careful."

"I will be, Dad.  You don't have to worry about that," Rose said.

12

Without telling his daughter where he was going, John Henry Clark rode
into the little village of Salcedo that evening.  The sun was down and
the night creatures were calling to each other.  A cloud passed over
the moon, then moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose
up before him.

Although Salcedo was on American soil, its population was almost one
hundred percent Mexican, and one would swear that it was south of the
border.  Two dozen adobe buildings, half of which spilled yellow light
onto the ground out front, faced the town plaza.  John Henry was
supposed to meet Bustamante in the cantina.  He saw immediately that
the cantina wouldn't be hard to find.  It was the biggest and most
brightly lit building in town.

As John Henry drew nearer to the town, he could hear someone playing a
guitar inside the cantina.  It was a mournful sound which caused him to
shiver involuntarily.  When he was a young boy people used to tell him
that such a shiver meant someone had just stepped on his grave.  John
Henry put that thought out of his mind.

Stopping his horse just at the edge of town, he ground-hobbled him,
then decided to walk the rest of the way, believing that a man afoot
would make a quieter entrance than a man on horseback.  He didn't want
to draw attention.

The smell of beans and spicy beef from one of the houses hung in the
night air.  A dog barked somewhere, but its bark was quickly silenced
by an impatient owner, more interested in quiet than in investigating
what caused the dog to bark.

A baby cried.

As John Henry moved through the little town, slipping between the
patches of light and shadow, he thought of the message he had received
that afternoon from the man who called himself General Pedro
Bustamante.

Senor.  I have some business to discuss with you, if you will meet me
at the cantina in Salcedo, the message had read.

Because of what had happened earlier in the day with his two riders,
John Henry's first inclination was to discard it.  Then he thought
there might be a possibility that Bustamante would know something about
who killed Mike and Leon.  It probably wasn't Bustamante, or he would
have never sent the message.  More than likely, Bustamante knew who did
it, and was going to offer to sell John Henry the information.

That was all right with John Henry.  If he had to pay to find justice,
then he would pay, and do so willingly.

He thought about asking one or both of the Coulter brothers to go with
him, then he remembered that they had asked him for a couple of days
off to take care of some "business," whatever the business was.  He
also thought about going to Salcedo without telling anyone, but finally
he decided that wouldn't be too smart.  That was why he told Deekus.

"You ain't going' to meet that Mexican fella, are you, Mr.  Clark?"

his foreman had asked.  "Bustamante?  Hell, he's the biggest outlaw in
these parts."

"Deekus, I'd make a deal with the devil himself if it meant keeping
Poindexter and Montoya from gobbling up the Tumbling C. And you know
damned well that business with Mike and Leon today was tied to one of
them.  I think one of them is trying to make me choose sides."

"Yes, sir, I wouldn't be surprised.  But it still seems to me that of
all the folks we got to deal with around here, that there Mexican
bandit is the worst.  He can't be up to no good, Mr. Clark.  You just
gotta know that."

"You might be right, but there's no way we're ever going to know unless
I at least meet with him.  That's all I'm doing, for now.  I'm just
meeting with him to find out what he has on his mind."

"And where is it that you're a-meetin' him?"  Deekus asked.

"At a town called Salcedo."

"Heard of it.  Don't know as I ever been there, though," Deekus said.

"I haven't either," John Henry said.  "It's mostly Mexican, from what I
hear, for all that it is on this side of the border."

"Maybe it would be a good idea if I come along," Deekus suggested.

"Let me saddle up and I'll ride in with you."

"No.  I think it might be better if I go by myself.  I don't know
exactly what Bustamante wants, but I'd like to find out, and I'm afraid
if anyone comes with me, it might spook him."

Deekus stroked the stubble on his chin.  "I don't know, Mr. Clark.  I
don't much like the idea of that, and I don't think Miss Rose would
either."

"No!"  John Henry said.  "Deekus, you mustn't tell her."

Reluctantly, Deekus agreed that he would say nothing of John Henry's
plan, and now, as John Henry picked his way through the dark street of
the little village, he was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, he hadn't
made a mistake.

He stepped into the middle of a pile of horse dung.  His boot slid
through the ooze, then he caught the smell of its awakened odor.

Cursing silently, he moved over to a porch in front of one of the
buildings and raked his boot back and forth on the step, cleaning it as
best he could.

That done, he moved on through the shadows until he reached the
cantina.  He listened to the sounds from inside.  The music had stopped
and now there was only conversation, Mexican mostly, but then to his
surprise, he heard Poindexter's voice.  Looking up and down the street
to make certain no one was watching the cantina door, he stepped up
onto the board porch and pushed through the hanging, beaded doorway.

Pulling his hat brim low, he headed straight for the bar and positioned
himself in the middle of a group of men.  The message he had received
from Bustamante made no mention of the fact that Poindexter would be
there.  If he had known that Poindexter was coming, he wouldn't have
come.  Now that he was here, though, he thought it might be good to
know just what was going on before he made his presence known.

Glancing across the room, he spied Poindexter in the far corner,
sitting at a table.  Across the table from Poindexter was a Mexican,
and, from the descriptions he had heard of the man, the Mexican had to
be Pedro Bustamante.  The two men were talking, and as their
conversation was virtually the only one being conducted in English in
the entire cantina, the words seemed to rise above the din of
Spanish.

John Henry could hear everything they said quite easily.

"We will make a good team, you and I, senor," Bustamante was saying.

"You will fight Montoya above the border, and I will fight him
below."

"Yeah, well, the thing is, General, I don't give a shit what happens to
Montoya below the border.  As far as I'm concerned, he can own every
inch of land between here and Mexico City."

"I see.  So you want my men to attack on this side of the border as
well.  Am I correct, senor?"

"Yes."

"I will do as you ask.  But, for this, you must pay well."

"Why should I pay you for fighting him?  Won't you be enriching
yourself by selling the cattle you steal from Montoya?  Besides, I
thought he was your enemy."

"Senor, you must understand that I am a revolucionario.  I am fighting
against Diaz, the dictator of my people.  The few cattle I might steal
would be to feed my starving people.  And to conduct the battle you
ask, I will need money to buy weapons and food for my soldiers.  Also,
if I am to fight on this side of the border it will be very dangerous
for me, for, although you regard Senor Montoya as a Mexican, he is
actually an American.

And how will it look to the government of your country if I, a general
in the Revolutionary Army of Mexico, were to attack a rich American?"

"All right," Poindexter said.  "I will pay you, but I have to have
something for my money.  So, I'll tell you what, I'll give you five
dollars for every head of Montoya cattle you can deliver to me."

"I can get more from the same cattle by taking them across the border
and selling them in my country."

"I thought you were only going to take a few cattle across the border
so that you can feed your starving people."

"Si.  But if I take more cattle, I can make more money."

"Yes, but you will still have to get them across the border.  It will
be much easier for you to sell them to me, at five dollars per head."

"Ten dollars a head," Bustamante said.

"Seven dollars and fifty cents," Poindexter countered.  "And if some of
the cows have the Tumbling C brand, I won't ask any questions."

"Tumbling C?"

"If old John Henry sees a bunch of Mexicans stealin' his cows, he's
going' to think Montoya's boys are doin' it.  And, since he's just
hired himself a couple of gunmen, he might just have enough guts to try
and go after Montoya."

Bustamante smiled broadly.  "And fight your battle for you, si.  You
are a muy smart hombre, senor," he said.  He stuck his hand across the
table.  "Very well, senor, we have a deal."

As the two men were clasping hands, one of Bustamante's men walked
across the room and leaned over to whisper something to his leader.

Bustamante nodded, then spoke to Poindexter again.

"Senor Poindexter, I have been told that the man of whom we speak is
here."

"Clark is here?"  Poindexter said.  He stood up and looked toward the
bar with an angry expression on his face.  He saw John Henry sitting
there.

"Clark, what are you doing here?"

"Ask the bandit you just made the deal with," Clark replied.  "He
invited me."

"You invited him?"  Poindexter asked.

"Si, I invited him."

"Why?"

"I thought you might like to know that he has been stealing your cows
and selling them to Colonel Morales Of the Mexican government,"
Bustamante said.

"What?  Why, I'm doing no such thing!"  John Henry sputtered.

"Si, I think you are," Bustamante said.  Bustamante turned to
Poindexter.  "Two of my men saw Senor Clark's pistoleros driving stolen
cattle.  When they met, the pistoleros shot at my men, almost killing
them.

Later, one of my spies in Polomas sent word that the pistoleros had
brought thirty-five head of cattle in to sell.  They were your cattle,
senor."

Poindexter smiled triumphantly at the man who was his neighbor.  He
clucked his tongue.  "My, my, John Henry Clark, I would have never
thought you had it in you."

"I swear to you, Poindexter, I don't know anythin about this.  All I
know is that two of my men were killed this morning, shot down in cold
blood, and I thought Bustamante might know who did it."

"The two pistoleros Bustamante's men saw with my cows can only be Win
and Joe Coulter."

"If it was them, they were acting without my approval."

"Of course it would be without your approval," Poindexter said,
laughing again.  "I've known those two boys for many, many years now.

Quantrill himself couldn't control them, what makes you think you
could?"

"Then you understand," John Henry said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"I understand that you shouldn't have brought them in, in the first
place," he said.  "And I understand that I cannot let you go back to
Guzman ... not since you now know of the little business arrangement
General Bustamante and I have arranged."

"What kind of business?"  John Henry asked.  "I don't know what you are
talking about."

"I think you know what kind of business," Poindexter scoffed.  He
turned toward the Mexican bandit.  "General Bustamante, I'm afraid you
made a mistake when you invited this man here.  He is a do-gooder.  He
will go back and tell Montoya that you and I are making plans against
him."

Poindexter looked over into the corner and nodded, a barely perceptible
move of his head.

"All right," John Henry admitted.  "I did overhear your devilish
plan.

And I am going to tell Montoya about it.  But not only Montoya, I am
also going to write a letter to the territorial governor and ask him to
stop it.

What you two are doing isn't right, Poindexter.  You're trying to start
a range war.  You'll turn good men against good men, and you'll bathe
this territory in blood."

"That will not concern you."

"What?  What do you mean, it won't concern me?  Of course it will.  I
live here!"

"I intend to take care of that right now," Poindexter said.  "Mr.
Tucker," he called over his shoulder.  "I have some more business for
you."

"Tucker?  Who is Tucker?"  John Henry asked nervously.

"Mr. Tucker is going to see to it that this little disagreement you
and I are having is settled in my favor."

This was beginning to get out of hand now, and John Henry looked around
nervously.  He, Poindexter, and Tucker were the only three Anglos in
the room.  Help seemed unlikely.  He had a wild urge to turn and run,
but he fought the urge down.

"Mr. Clark, I see that you are not wearing a gun.  Maybe you'd better
get one," Tucker said.

"I'm a rancher and a working man, Tucker," John Henry replied.  "I am
not a gunfighter."

"Here, John Henry.  Take my gun.  It's a good one.  I carried it when I
was with Quantrill."  Poindexter took his gun out and laid it on the
bar next to John Henry.

"It'll do you no good to put that gun there.  I don't intend to pick it
up."

"Oh, I think you will."

"No, I don't think so," John Henry said.  "You may think this is a
Mexican town, but it's not.  It's on American soil, and this cantina is
full of American citizens.  I don't think even you would kill someone
in cold blood in front of so many witnesses."

"It won't be in cold blood.  You have a gun, so it'll be a fair fight,"
Tucker said.

"Hardly.  You've got your pistol in a holster.  This gun is lying on
the bar.  That gives you an advantage."

"That's more of an advantage than I gave your two riders this
morning."

John Henry felt his stomach turn and the hair stand up on the back of
his neck.  "That was you?"  he said in a quiet voice.  "You killed
them?"

Tucker didn't answer.

"Yes, it was you, wasn't it?"  John Henry said.  "How else would you
know about it, if you didn't do it?  Jerry said Mike's last words were
'tough luck."  But I can see it now.  That isn't what he said.  What he
said was, 'Tucker."" Tucker smiled evilly.  "And so now you can see
that I mean business," he said.  "Go ahead, Mr. Clark.  Try me.  Don't
you want revenge?

I'll let you wrap your hand around the handle.  I won't even start my
draw till then."

"No.  I won't fight you."

"You're a coward."

"I am not a coward, but I am a prudent man.  I have no intention of
getting into a gunfight here and now."

"What's it going to take to make a man out of you?"  Tucker asked.

Then he smiled again, this smile more evil than the previous one.

"Maybe if I tell you about your daughter ... and how I ..."

"Leave Rose out of this," John Henry said.

Tucker's smile broadened.  He had found a way to get to John Henry now,
a way, at last, to force him into a shooting match.

"Maybe you want to stay around a little longer so you can watch me have
your daughter.  She wants me, Clark.  I've seen the way she looks at
me.  I've seen that hungry look in women's eyes before.  She wants what
I've got for her."  He reached around with his left hand and grabbed
himself.

"Shut up, you foulmouthed bastard."

"Well, now, Clark.  You can shut me up if you want to.  You can shut me
up and protect that little girl of yours at the same time.  If you get
lucky, just real lucky, you might ..."

Suddenly, desperately, John Henry made a clawing grab for the pistol.

Tucker drew his gun and had it pointed at John Henry before the rancher
could even lift the pistol from the bar.  Tucker stopped and smiled.

For just a moment the two men formed a bizarre tableau, then Tucker
pulled the trigger.

The bullet caught John Henry in the throat and he dropped the gun
unfired, then clutched at his neck.  Blood spilled between his fingers
as he let out his gurgling death rattle.  He fell against the bar, then
slid down, dead before he reached the floor.

The patrons of the bar who had moved out of the way at the start of the
confrontation now began moving carefully back to the bar.  All of them
looked at the prostrate form of John Henry Clark, his sightless eyes
open, his mouth in a grimace of anger, the gaping wound in his throat
oozing red with blood.  His arms were lying to either side, his hands
calloused from a lifetime of work.

A dozen or more of the patrons crossed themselves and a few mumbled a
prayer for him.

13

Back in Guzman in for supper, Win and Joe had a good meal in the
restaurant, then went over to the Independence Saloon for a few
beers.

"A few beers" was what Joe said they were going for, but Win wasn't
fooled in the least.  He knew that what Joe really wanted was to go
upstairs with Katie.  And Win didn't blame him.  If he had someone to
go upstairs with, he'd be up there too, instead of standing at the bar,
nursing a beer.

He thought of Rose Clark.  A couple of times since he and Joe had
arrived in Guzman, he had walked down to the school, but Rose Clark was
very distant to him.  He found her behavior very puzzling.  As a
general rule, Win did not have difficulty in getting a woman's
attention.  And he was experienced enough to know that Rose had enjoyed
... had really enjoyed their time together.  Why was she avoiding him
now?

Whatever the reason, she had made it very plain that she didn't want
anything to do with him, so if he was looking for female companionship,
he would just have to look somewhere else.

And this was as good a place as any to start, he thought.

There were four soiled doves who worked the trade at the Independence
Saloon.  Actually, for Win's purposes, there were only three, because
he couldn't count Katie McGallagher.  She had pulled herself "off the
line."

And anyway she was, for now at least, the exclusive property of Win's
brother Joe.  The two brothers had learned, long ago, never to let a
woman come between them.

But that left Win still horny, and still on the prowl.  And the
pickings seemed exceptionally slim tonight.  Two of the Independence
working girls had already gone upstairs for the night.  The one
remaining girl didn't appeal to Win, though she did try to interest him
in what she had to offer.

Feeling somewhat abandoned, Win was standing at the bar, nursing a
beer.

"She ain't much," the man next to him said.

"What's that?"

"Linda."

"Who is Linda?"

"The whore who just tried to get you to take her upstairs a while ago,"
the man said.  "She's so ugly she'd make a train take four miles of
dirt road, if you get my meanin'.  She ain't exactly the kind of woman
a man wants to belly up to, 'lessen it's been a long, dry spell."

"Don't really like to call any woman ugly," Win said, raising his beer
mug to his lips.  "But seem' someone like that does make you wonder why
she got into the business in the first place."

"Raquel," the man said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You should try Raquel.  She's a looker."

Win looked around the saloon.  "I don't see any other woman in here."

"No, and you ain't going' to either.  Leastwise, not in here.  You see,
Raquel's Mex, and Poindexter, he don't allow no Mexicans in here."

"I see."

"You'll find Raquel across the street in the Mex cantina.  Believe me,
that little ole gal knows how to ride a man hard and put him away
wet.

I know, 'cause she's done it to me."

"You say she works the cantina?"

"Yes."

"Are you telling me that the Mexicans are a little more open-minded
about it?  They let Americans come into their place?"

"They don't like us any more than we like them, I'll admit," the man
said.  He smiled.  "But they do like our money."

Win finished his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.

He looked upstairs, in the direction his brother had gone with Katie
half an hour earlier.

"All right," Win said.  "All right, I think I might just give this
Raquel a try."

"You ain't going' to regret it, I'll promise you that," the man called
after Win, as he pushed his way through the set of double-swinging
batwing doors.

Across the street in the Mexican cantina, Raquel looked particularly
alluring this evening.  She had black flashing eyes, ruby lips, and
teeth as white as pearls.  Her long, black hair was tied back with a
red ribbon, which matched the color of the sash at her waist.  The
dress she was wearing was very low-cut and particularly revealing, so
when she served Win his drink and leaned over his table, she treated
him to a more than generous view of her breasts.

With all the skills of her profession, Raquel engaged Win in the art of
seduction, running her fingers along his jawline, brushing her hips
against his arm.  Within a few more visits to his table, aided by a
little squeeze here and a tiny pressure there, she accomplished what
she set out to do.  Win made the suggestion, she quoted a price, and
the two of them went up the stairs together.  About halfway up the
stairs he glanced over at the bar and caught a glimpse of the man he
had met in the Independence Saloon.  The man held out his glass of
tequila in silent salute, and Win nodded down at him.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Raquel called out in Spanish,
and a short, heavyset woman hurried down the hall.  She opened the
door, then stepped away from it.

"Senor," Raquel said, holding her arm toward the open door, smiling in
broad invitation.

"Where I come from it's ladies first," Win said.

"You are a fine gentleman," Raquel replied, stepping into the room
ahead of him.  Win followed her and once inside saw a bed, bedside
table, chair, and chifforobe.  The heavyset woman Raquel had spoken to
hurried over to the chifforobe, where there was a pitcher, bowl, and
towel.  She filled the bowl with water from the pitcher, then turned
and started to back out of the room.  Just before she left, Raquel said
something else to her.  The woman's eyes grew wide for an instant, then
Raquel spoke again, more sharply this time, and the woman nodded.

"Si, senorita," she said very quietly.

"Is something wrong?"  Win asked, surprised by the sharpness of the
words he couldn't understand.

"Maria is a stupid woman," Raquel said.  "Every time I give her
instructions, and every time she does not obey."

"Maybe I'd better ..."  Win started to say, but Raquel reached up to
touch him.

"No," she said, shaking her head and pouting.  "It is nothing."  She
put her fingers on his neck, and Win wondered how they could be so cool
to the touch, yet fire his blood.

Raquel undid the ribbon that held her hair.  She shook her head to let
it come cascading down.

"How can we make love if you are going to wear all your clothes?"  she
asked.

Smiling, Win began to remove his clothes and, eagerly, Raquel helped
him.  Then, when he was naked, he lay back on the bed and watched as
Raquel put on a show of undressing before him.

Raquel had already demonstrated her skill in the art of seduction
downstairs.  But she knew that seduction could be most effective while
appealing to his eyes.  So, half closing her long-lashed lids over dark
eyes, she continued her seductive dance for him, removing her clothes
one item at a time.  She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and Win
enjoyed seeing her firm, well-rounded breasts.  The dark nipples were
drawn tight by their exposure to air.

Continuing the seductive dance, Raquel pushed the dress further down on
her body, exposing more of the smooth, bare skin until he could see the
pinch of her navel, then the triangle of dark hair that curled
invitingly at her thighs.  Finally the dress fell to the floor, a
rustling pool of taffeta, and she stepped out of it and glided over to
the bed, now totally naked.  She sat on the edge of the bed and reached
her hand out to wrap around his cock.  Gently, skillfully, she began
moving her hand up and down, sending shivers of sensation through Win's
body.  As she leaned over him, her breasts swung forward and her
nipples brushed lightly against his skin.

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

"Why?"

"I have a surprise for you.  Here, I will kiss them for you."

Win closed his eyes and felt her lips against the eyelids, first one,
then the other.  He was drifting in a sea of pleasure.

Then he heard the metallic click as the sear engaged the cylinder and
the hammer came back.  He felt something cold and hard, and when he
opened his eyes he saw that Raquel was holding a revolver pointed at
his testicles.

"Do not move, senor," she said in a low, flat voice.  All the warmth
was gone now.  "Or you will never enjoy a woman again."

"What the hell is this?"  Win asked, raising up on his elbows.  "What
are you doing?"

"Diego!"  the girl called.

The door opened and four men entered the little room.  They were all
Mexican, and all were smiling.

"Good evening, Senor Coulter," one of them said.  He sat on the chair
and folded his arms across his chest.  The other men began tying Win to
the bed.  They used leather thongs to secure his wrists to the
headboard and his ankles to the footboard.

"Who are you?"  Win asked.  "What's going on here?"

"Allow me to introduce myself, senor.  I am Diego Segura.  I have the
honor of being a vaquero for Don Juan de la Montoya.  These men too are
vaqueros for Senor Montoya.  You are one of the men Senor Clark hired,
no?

Pistolero?"

"What the hell business is it of yours?"  Win replied.

Raquel jammed the barrel of the gun into his balls so hard that it
hurt, and he let out a gasp of pain.

"I know it is true, senor, so please answer my questions.  If you do
not, I believe my sister would be most happy to shoot the balls off a
gringo."  He said the same thing again in Spanish for the benefit of
the other men, and they all laughed uproariously at his joke.

"Your sister?"  Win asked in surprise.  "Are you telling me that you
let your sister sit around naked in front of these men?"

Diego shrugged his shoulders and turned the palms of his hands out.

"What can I say, senor?  My sister is a puta, a whore.  These men have
all known her."

"It is too bad we did not get the chance, senor," Raquel said.  She
reached down to squeeze him.  "I think I would have liked it, and I
think you would have too."

"That's enough, Raquel," Diego said.  "You go downstairs now.  We will
deal with the gringo."

"Do not hurt him too much, my brother," Raquel said, smiling as she
began putting her clothes on.  "He is too pretty to hurt too much."

"Now you will talk to me," Diego said, after his sister left.  "You are
one of the men Senor Clark hired, yes?"

"Yes."

"But you are not cowboys.  You are men who are skilled with guns.  You
are pistoleros, yes?"

"Why are you asking the questions?  You seem to know all the answers
already."

"Si.  I know all the answers, and I think Senor Clark hired you to help
Poindexter make war against Don Juan de la Montoya and Rancho
Trinidad."

"I'm damn sure not working for Poindexter," Win started, but before he
could finish his protest, a fist slammed into his face.

Across the street at that very moment, Joe was telling Katie Ann
McGallagher good-bye.

"I'm glad you came by tonight, Joe," Katie said.

"You didn't think I wouldn't be here, did you?  Just try and keep me
away," Joe replied.

"He will, you know."

Joe nodded.  "You're talking about Poindexter," he said.  "Well,
Poindexter might try, but tryin' and doin' is two different things."

"Please be very careful tonight, Joe," Katie said.  "I don't know what
it is, but something is in the air, and I'm frightened for you."

"Don't waste your time being frightened for me," Joe said, chuckling as
he left her room.

When Joe got downstairs, he looked around for his brother, but Win was
nowhere to be found.  He ordered a drink and nursed it for a few
minutes, glancing, often, toward the head of the stairs.

Finally, he asked the bartender, "How long's my brother been up
there?"

"Your brother?  He ain't up there."

"He's not?  Where is he?"

"You might try the Mex place across the street.  Seems to me like I
heard him and another fella talkin' about it."

"The Mex place?"

"Yeah, you know, the cantina."

"All right, thanks," Joe said, heading out into the dark.  A moment
later, he pushed through the hanging, clacking beads to go into the
cantina.  When he asked the bartender, the bartender nodded toward a
pretty Mexican girl who was sitting at a table near the back wall.

"I am Raquel, senor," the girl said, smiling prettily at him when he
went over to her.  She leaned over to show her ample cleavage.  "Can I
do something for you?"

"Senorita, I'm looking for my brother.  I'm told he may have come in
here.  Have you seen him?"  He described him to her.

"No, I don't think so, senor."

"The bartender said you went upstairs with him."

The girl smiled.  "Si, I did go upstairs with a gringo.  I did not know
he was your brother."

"Well, where is he now?"

"I do not know, senor.  He has left."

"That's funny.  He wouldn't have left here without coming back over to
get me.  You sure he has left?"

"Si, senor.  I am sure."

"Yeah, like you were sure he hadn't been here in the first place," Joe
said.  He took one more look toward the head of the stairs, then turned
to leave.

"All right, thanks," Joe said.  "I guess I've made a mistake.  I'll-"
He stopped in mid-sentence, then went over to another table where he
picked up a very familiar black hat.  "This belongs to my brother," he
said.

"What is it doing here?"

"You are mistaken, senor," Raquel said.  "That hat has been here for a
very long time."

"You're lying," Joe said.  "I think I'll just take a look upstairs."

"No!"  the girl screamed at the top of her lungs, moving toward the
stairs on the run.  "Diego!"  she yelled.  She tried to block Joe, but
he pushed her aside.

Just as Joe reached the top of the stairs, the first door opened and a
Mexican looked out.  Quickly, the Mexican slammed the door and Joe
heard a key turning in the lock.

Joe didn't know if this was a shy customer with one of the saloon
girls, or if Win was in that room, but he didn't wait to think about
it.

He raised his foot and kicked in the door.  The door, hinges and frame,
exploded into the room with a puff of dust from the mud-chinked
walls.

The Mexican who had closed the door wound up on his backside on the
floor.

"Dios!"  someone in the room shouted, and Joe saw him start for a
pistol that was lying on the bedside table.  Joe reached the table in
one giant step.  The man grabbed the gun before Joe did, but he never
got the chance to use it.  Joe picked him up and threw him through the
window.  The window smashed with a shower of glass, and the man, with
the gun still in his hand, began firing shots into the air and
screaming as he fell two stories to the ground below.

There were three other men in the room, and they all started for Joe,
thinking to rush him all at once.  Joe picked one up and threw him
against the wall.  The other two turned tail, making for the door at
the same time.

Unfortunately for them, even with the opening enlarged by Joe's
entrance, it wasn't possible for them both to exit simultaneously,
until Joe helped them.  Bending over to use his head and shoulders as a
battering ram, Joe charged across the room at them, roaring like an
angry bull.  He smashed into them from the rear, popping them through
the opening.  Both men went flying out into the hall, then flipped over
the rail and crashed onto the tables below.

Now everyone in the cantina knew what was going on.  Frightened for
their own safety, they had left the bar and tables and were now
gathered near the front door.  Some had already moved into the street,
but a few, whose curiosity overcame their fear, stayed just inside and
watched as the two came flying off the upstairs landing to crash onto
the tables below.

Joe hurried back into the room to get Win.  Win's eyes were black, his
lips were swollen, and there were bruises and scars on his cheeks where
he had been beaten.  Despite all that, he was smiling broadly at his
brother.

"My God, Win, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Whooee, Joe, you do push folks around a mite when you get pissed off,"
Win said.

Joe cut the leather thongs that bound Win to the bed, then as Win
pulled his clothes on, Joe gave vent to the rest of his anger.  He
moved down the hallway, kicking in every door to every room, some of
which were occupied by terrified girls and their cowering customers.

Then, when Joe got downstairs, he picked up one of Montoya's men who
was just now getting to his feet and hurled him through the front
window.

Scores of people from the other cantinas, and even from the
Independence Saloon, had joined the growing crowd in the street,
watching what was going on.  Win, who had gone after their horses, rode
up, leading Joe's animal.

With the sound of smashing and crashing over, an unearthly quiet
settled on the street.  No one said a word as Joe mounted, and even as
they started riding away, the town remained silent, as if the slightest
sound might cause Joe to come after them.

Win twisted around in his saddle and looked back at the crowd and the
damaged saloon.  He chuckled.

"What is it?"  Joe asked.

"Seems to me like we didn't do a whole lot more damage when we raided
Lawrence," Win said.  "Little Brother, remind me never to get on your
bad side."

14

One of the advantages of working for the Tumbling C Ranch was the fact
that Win and Joe had a free place to stay.  They were living in the
bunkhouse, but, unlike the cowboys who were working there, and who had
to get up at the crack of dawn to tend to their tasks, Win and Joe were
pretty much free to come and go at will.  So when they returned to the
bunkhouse that night, the darkness was rent with the snoring of half a
dozen cowboys, long since gone to bed.  One of them woke up.  "You
fellas just getting' in?"  Deekus asked.

"Yeah," Win answered.

"Wish you'd been here earlier."

"Why?  Did something' happen?"

"No.  Leastwise, I don't think anything has.  But Mr. Clark went down
to Salcedo, and he ain't come back yet.  I'm a mite worried about
him."

"What'd he go there for?"

"To meet with Bustamante."

"Bustamante?  The bandido?  The one we ran into when he tried to take
the freight wagons?"

"That's the one," Deekus said.  "I wish you two had been here.  You
coulda gone with him."

"Sorry," Joe said.  "He didn't say anything to us about it."

"I know, he just got the message late this afternoon.  I tried to talk
him into lettin' me go, but he wouldn't hear of it."  Joe lit a
lantern.

"What'd you light that lamp for?"  Deekus asked.  "You going' to wake
the boys up."

"Hell, Deekus," a voice grumbled from the darkness.  "All your
palaverin' has already done that."  A couple of others chuckled.

"Sorry, fellas," Joe said.  "But my brother is some hurt, and I thought
I'd take a look at him."

"Hurt?"  Deekus said.  He got out of bed and came over to them.  "Let
me see."

A couple of the other cowboys left their bunks as well, and they stood
on the wide-plank floor, scratching themselves through their underwear
as they gathered around for a closer look.

"Holy shit!  Look at that!"  one of them said.  "Damn if you don't look
like you was kicked in the face by a mule."

"What happened?"

"I got beat up," Win answered.  He was actually laughing.

"You got beat up that bad, and you're laughing about it?"

"Yeah," Win said.  "Well, it was kind of funny, when you think about
it."

"Who done it?"

Joe poured some whiskey onto a handkerchief, then started doctoring one
of his brother's cuts.  The whiskey burned, and Win jerked back.

"Ouch!"  he said.  "That burns."

"It's good for you."

"That's what you say.  It seems to me a hell of a waste of good
whiskey," Win complained.

"Go on, tell us what happened."

"Well, I went into this Mexican cantina, you know the one, across from
the Independence Saloon?  Say, fellas, they got the best-looking
Mexican gal workin' there you ever saw in your life.  Her name is
Raquel."

"Hold still!"  Joe ordered, irritated by the fact that Win was moving
his head from side to side while he was talking.

"You tryin' to tell us some Mexican gal did this to you?"  Deekus
asked.

"Raquel?  No, all she did was hold a gun to my balls," Win said.  "Her
brother and some of his friends did this."

Gradually, as Joe doctored his brother, cleaning the cuts and tending
to the bruises, Win managed to tell the story, sometimes getting up
from his chair to add embellishments, only to be pushed back down by
his brother.  The story was full of self-deprecating humor and, by the
time he was finished, the entire bunkhouse was laughing out loud.

"And all the while Joe was whipping ass, there I was, tied to the bed,
naked as a jaybird, and watching it all," Win concluded.  "I tell you,
boys, I had the best seat in the house."

"Damn me, I wish I'd've been there!"  one of the cowboys said.  "I
would have loved to have seen them Mexicans get whupped."

"Hey, fellas!"  one of the cowboys said, interrupting the
conversation.

He had moved to a window and was now looking outside.  "They's someone
comin'!"

"It must be Mr. Clark," Deekus said.  "Good, I been some worried about
him."

"It ain't Mr. Clark.  There's two of 'em, and they're leadin' a horse
behind 'em.  They're Mexicans."

"What's that?"

"Two Mexicans, leadin' a third horse."

The cowboys all grabbed their pistols, then stepped out onto the
porch.

All but Joe and Win were in their underwear, having just gotten out of
bed.

"You hombres hold on there!"  Deekus shouted in a loud, demanding
voice.

The Mexicans had not yet noticed the cowboys, and Deekus's booming
shout in the night startled them.

"Caramba!"  one of them shouted.  "Senor, don't shoot, We are but poor
peons!"  He and the other rider put their hands in the air and
stopped.

Their shaking arms indicated their fright.

"What are you two hombres doin' here?"  Deekus asked.

"Is this the rancho of Senor Clark?"  one of the men asked.

"Yes."

"I am muy sorry, senor," the Mexican said.  He gestured with the thumb
of his raised hand, toward the horse he was leading.  "But we have
brought you something that is very sad."

"You better make yourself clear, real fast," Deekus said.

"We have brought Senor Clark to you."

"What do you mean, you have brought him to us?"

"He is muerto, senor."

"Muerto?  What, you mean dead?"  more than one voice replied.  Si.

Joe and Win walked back to the led horse to have a look.  Deekus and
the others did as well, but they were barefooted, and they had to pick
their way gingerly across the rock-strewn ground, so that the two
brothers were already there examining the body by the time they
arrived.

Win lifted the head of the body so he could see the face.

"Is it him?"  Deekus asked.

Win nodded his head.  "Yeah, it's him, all right."

Deekus cocked his pistol, and the metallic click was loud in the
night.

"You boys do this?"  he asked.

"No, senor!"  one of the two men answered.  "He was killed by a
Norteamericano ... one of your own countrymen."

"You're lying.  He went to meet with Bustamante."

"Si.  He met with the general.  But Bustamante did not kill him."

"Who did?"

"I told you.  A Norteamericano."

"Tell me his name."

The two Mexicans conferred for a moment, as if trying to agree on the
name, then they nodded, and the spokesman spoke.

"His name is Tucker."

"Tucker?"  Joe said.  "Say, Win, isn't he the one who killed them two
deputies?"

"That's the one," Win said.

"I knew I didn't like that son of a bitch first time I seen him," Joe
replied.

"Put your hands down," Win said when he noticed that the two Mexicans
were still holding their hands up.

"Si, senor.  Gracias."

"And gracias to you for bringing him back."  The two nodded, then
started to turn their horses.

"Wait a minute!"  Deekus called.

The two Mexicans halted.

"It's a long ride back and it's late," Deekus said.  "You folks want
to, you can spend the night here."

"You got no call asking' 'em to stay here, Deekus," one of the cowboys
protested.  "Where at are they going' to sleep?"

"They'll sleep in the bunkhouse with us.  We got some bunks ain't bein'
used."

"No, sirree.  I ain't going' to sleep in the bunkhouse with no
Mexicans."

Deekus glared at the cowboy.  "Then you can, by God, sleep in the
barn," he said.  "Because these two is sleepin' in the bunkhouse!"

"Who's going' to tell the girl about her pa?"  someone asked.

Deekus took a deep breath.  "I'm not lookin' forward to it," he said.

"But I've know'd her since she was a young girl, so I reckon I'm the
one to do it."

The morning sun was an orange ball, just clearing the eastern range of
the mountains.  Tentacles of light reached down into the notches of Red
Rock Escarpment, clearing away the morning haze which hung in the nooks
and crannies like drifting smoke.  The red sandy loam was dotted with
cottonwood and mesquite, rimmed in gold from the rising sun.

Rose Clark, who had not gone back to sleep after Deekus gave her the
awful news last night, came riding onto the scene.  Her horse picked
its way along the familiar rim line to look out over the sweeping
grandeur of the Tumbling C. She rode carefully along a trail that led
to a private place, a secret glen she had discovered in her youth, and
to which she often came when troubled or when she wanted to be alone,
just to think.

She had come up here fifteen years ago, when her mother died, and, as
she said her private good-bye to her mother, she knew, even then, that
the day would come when she would return for the same reason for her
father.

And she was prepared for that eventuality, she just wasn't ready for it
to happen so soon.

Once on top, she rode out onto the precipice from which she could see
the entire canyon floor and the ranch, including the main house, the
barn, and the bunkhouse where the hands slept when they weren't out on
the range or in one of the line shacks.

From here too she could see the road that led into the canyon and she
saw that, already, carriages, buckboards, and wagons were making their
way down the road from Guzman.  Word of her father's death had spread
like wildfire during the night, and already his many friends were
coming to pay their respects.

"Rose?"

Rose was startled to hear her name called, for she didn't realize
anyone had followed her up here.  Ordinarily, she would have also been
a little resentful, for this was her own, private place, and she wasn't
prepared to share it with anyone else.

But the situation was different this morning.  She had come up here,
thinking to tell her father good-bye, believing that she wanted
solitude for the task.  However, once here, she realized how alone, and
how lonely, she was really going to be.  So when she saw Win coming
toward her she felt glad.

"Oh, Win," she sobbed.  She started toward him and Win dismounted and
took her in his arms.  They stood that way for a long moment, with Win
holding her close to him.

It was not hard for Win to imagine Rose's sorrow.  He could well
remember how he had felt when he and Joe had come back from a simple
trip to buy feed and seed to find both their parents murdered and the
buildings of the farm burned to the ground.  But Win said nothing of
this, for he knew that telling her of his own sorrow wouldn't make her
pain any less.

Finally, he felt her move away slightly, and he let her go.  She walked
over to sit down on a flat rock, choosing her place easily and without
looking.  Win knew, without having to be told, that this was a place as
familiar to her as the living room in the house below.

"I hope all of the schoolchildren got word of what happened," she
finally said.  "I wouldn't want to think about them showing up for
school today without me being there.  I hope they all know there won't
be any school."

"I'm sure they got word," Win said.  He pointed toward the road that
led into the ranch.  "Everyone knows about it.  As you can see, folks
are already coming out to pay their respects."

"Yes," Rose said.  "I am pleased to know that my father had so many
friends."

They were quiet for a long moment, then Rose spoke again.  "I'm sorry,"
she said.

Win looked at her in surprise.  "You're sorry?  About what?"

"About us," Rose said.  "About the way I have treated you since you got
here."

"Don't worry about it."

"No, no, I want to worry about it," Rose said.  "I want you to
understand why."

"All right.  You can tell me about it if you want to.  I'll listen,"
Win said easily.

Rose ran her hand through her hair as she paused for a moment to form
just the right words.

"It's just that, I have painted this picture of myself, all these
years, of being a good woman," she began.  "I admit that I lost my
innocence with Johnny Payne.  But Johnny and I were engaged, and I
thought that, somehow, God would understand, and forgive me.  But God
didn't forgive me, and because of my sin, Johnny was killed when a
horse threw him.

"Then I sinned again, when I gave myself to you.  I thought we would
never see each other again, I thought it was something that would
happen and then go away.  But it wasn't like that.  You came here and,
every time I see you, I have to come face-to-face with the fact that I
am a sinful and wicked woman.

"Now, God has punished me again.  This time he took my father from
me.

And please don't think I am blaming you.  It isn't your fault, it's
mine, and I had no right to treat you like that."

"You, sinful and wicked?  Listen to me, Rose Clark," Win said.  His
opening words were gruff, but when he saw a tear sliding down her cheek
he softened his tone, and he reached out to catch the tear with the tip
of his finger.  "I've never known anyone more innocent than you.  And
God didn't take your father from you.  A man named Tucker did.  And
Tucker is the one who is going to have to answer to God."  And me, he
added silently.

Rose smiled through her tears.  "You're a good man, Win Coulter, trying
to comfort me like this."

"I'm not the only one wanting to comfort you," Win said.  He pointed to
the house, where by now several conveyances were parked, the teams
placidly munching grass.  "Looks like you have quite a crowd gathered
now.

Maybe you'd better go down there and greet them."

Rose wiped her eyes.  "Yes," she said.  "You're right.  I've also got
to go into town and buy a coffin.  Oh, how I dread that."

"I'll do that for you," Win promised.

"Oh, will you?  Thank you.  I can't tell you how much I appreciate not
having to go through that."

15

Carlotta had seen Diego and the other vaqueros when they returned to
Trinidad last night.  Bruised and beaten, they were barely able to sit
on their horses.  When someone said they had been beaten in town by
gringos who worked for John Henry Clark, she was afraid that Senor
Montoya would be so angry that he would lead his men in an attack
against the Tumbling C.

But when Montoya found out the entire story, how Senor Coulter had been
tricked, then tied and beaten by four of his own men, he grew very
angry.

"Why would you do such a thing?"  he asked.

"Mi patren, we did it for you," Diego tried to explain.  "These
hombres, Win Coulter and his hermano, Joe, are pistoleros for Senor
Clark.

We thought to make sure that their pistols would not be used against
Rancho Trinidad."

"Senor Clark is not our enemy," Montoya said.  "But such things as this
could make him our enemy.  I must now go to him and apologize.  And
though it is an act of humiliation, I will do it, for it is something
that must be done."

"I'm sorry, senor, I thought you would be pleased with this."

"Pleased?  How can I be pleased?  We are men of honor," Montoya said.

"Diego, I am from a long line of noblemen, going back to the days when
my ancestors were honored by the king of Spain for their bravery.  I
will not have my ancestors dishonored by dishonorable men!"

Montoya's angry shouts could be heard all over the hacienda, and the
servants of the house moved quickly and quietly to avoid his ire.

But then, suddenly, the shouting and angry words stopped.  For the next
several moments, there were only subdued voices.  Then a whispered
rumor began working its way through Rancho Trinidad, whispered by
coachman to maid, by maid to cook, by cook to stable man, by stable man
to vaquero until, within moments, everyone knew.

Senor John Henry Clark was dead, shot down in a saloon in Salcedo.

"Now there will be great trouble," Montoya said.  "The entire
population of Salcedo is Mexican.  I fear that the people who are left
at the Tumbling C will join forces with Inferno Ranch.  The war that I
did not want is about to be forced upon us."

It was late, and the house was very quiet.  Carlotta was certain that
by now everyone was asleep.  That was good.  It was necessary that
everyone be asleep in order for her to carry out her plan.  Quietly,
she got out of bed and began dressing.

Don Montoya's words, "The war that I did not want is about to be forced
upon us," burned into her heart.  Surely, such a thing could be avoided
if only reason were applied.  Someone should do something to stop this
before it went any further.

But who was that someone?

She was that someone, Carlotta decided.

And why not?  Had not she and Rose Clark become fast friends?  And with
Senor Clark dead, then his daughter would be in charge of the ranch,
and surely her words would be listened to.

Carlotta would go to Rose Clark and offer her condolences on the death
of her father.  She was sure that the mood at Trinidad was such that no
one else would do it.  Besides, such a visit would also give her the
opportunity to beg her friend Rose to work for peace, if not between
Trinidad and Inferno, then at least between Trinidad and the Tumbling
C.

Dressed now, Carlotta stepped out of her room and into the long hall.

The hallway was thickly carpeted, and the carpet's rich texture cradled
her feet as she walked silently down the length of the corridor.  She
could hear snoring and soft, measured breathing coming from the other
rooms.

The house was dark, but a splash of moonlight coming in through a front
window guided her down the stairs.  When she reached the bottom of the
stairs, she was startled by a sudden clicking noise, followed by a
whirring sound.

Dong!

It was the hall clock, announcing the time.  Quietly, Carlotta let
herself out of the house.  She went out to the tack room, selected her
saddle, then mounted and rode away quietly, without being seen.

Half an hour later, on the road to the Tumbling C, her horse suddenly
started favoring its right foreleg.

"Oh, Diablo, what is wrong?"  she asked, dismounting and running her
hand up and down the animal's leg.  The horse flinched at her touch.

For some reason that he couldn't figure out, Loomis Tucker always had
an overpowering need for a woman after he killed someone.  But this
time, it wasn't just any woman.  Seeing all those Mexican women in
Salcedo, their golden skin, the long black hair and flashing black
eyes, had given him a desire for someone like that.  So, after
returning from Salcedo, he went to the Mexican cantina.

Although the cantina was still buzzing with the excitement of the
incident involving Win and Joe Coulter, it had returned to "business as
usual."  Tucker ordered a tequila and expressed his intent to buy
Raquel's services.  Then he sat in the corner of the cantina and
waited.

He waited until after midnight, cursing under his breath at whoever was
taking up so much of her time upstairs.  While he waited, he continued
to drink tequila, and he was about half-drunk when he learned that
Raquel wasn't here at all.  She had slipped out the back way at about
eleven-thirty.

"What the hell did she do that for?"  Tucker demanded.  "She knew I was
waiting for her!"

"I do not know, Senor Tucker.  Perhaps she forgot," the bartender said,
although the bartender knew full well that Raquel hadn't forgotten but
had sneaked out the back way because Tucker was here.

Drunk, frustrated, and angry, Tucker had mounted his horse and was now
riding toward Inferno.  The road to Inferno ran west, from Guzman.

Four miles outside of Guzman, a road branched off to the south.  This
was the road to Trinidad.  A little over a mile later, another road
branched off to the north, this one going to the Tumbling C.

Inferno was straight ahead on the road, due west.

Tucker was on that stretch of road between the two junctions to
Trinidad and Tumbling C when he saw a horse.  At first, he thought the
horse was alone.  Then he saw that someone was standing alongside it,
examining its leg.  He saw too that the person was a young woman ... a
young Mexican woman.

"Raquel!"  he said under his breath.  He slapped his legs against the
side of his horse, urging it into a lope.  The girl didn't hear him
until the last moment, then she looked up, startled that someone would
be out here at this time.

When she looked up, Tucker saw that it wasn't Raquel but was instead
the young girl who had come to marry Esteban.  He smiled broadly.

Hell, this was even better than running across Raquel.  He
dismounted.

"Having a problem?"  he asked.

"Si, senor.  My horse, he is hurt.  I think I cannot ride him now
without hurting him more."

Tucker bent down to touch the horse's leg, and again the horse
flinched.

"Yeah, he's gone lame all right," Tucker said, standing up.  He ran the
back of his hand across his mouth as he looked at the young girl,
standing in the moonlight.  She was much prettier than Raquel.  "Tell
me, what's a pretty little thing like you doin' out here on the road at
this time of night?"

"I am going to visit my friend Senorita Rose Clark at the Tumbling C
Ranch," Carlotta said.

"She must be a pretty good friend to let you come wake her up in the
middle of the night like this."

"Si, senor.  We are very good friends, but I think she may not be
asleep this night.  There is much sorrow over there now.  Perhaps you
have not heard.  Her father has been killed."

"Oh, yes, I know all about it," Tucker said.  "I killed him."  He
smiled again, and Carlotta thought she had never seen evil more
personified than in the countenance of this man.

"You!  You killed him, senor?"

"Yes."

"But why?  Why would you do such a thing?"

"Hell, girly, I did it because I wanted to," Tucker said.  He started
unbuckling his belt.  "Now there's something else I want to do."

"Senor, no, please," Carlotta said in a quiet, pleading voice.

"You're just playin' shy, I know," Tucker said.  "You really like what
a man can do for you.  All you Mexican girls like it."

Carlotta turned and tried to run, but she was blocked on one side by
her horse, and on the other by Tucker, so that she had nowhere to go.

As a result, Tucker caught her easily, then threw her to the ground.

WHEN TUCKER FINISHED, HE STOOD UP AND LOOKED DOWN at the young girl,
whimpering in the dirt, her dress torn and bloodied.

"All right, girl, it's over," he said gruffly.  "You can get up now."

She lay there, sobbing quietly.

"I said, you can get up now," he repeated.  He leaned down and grabbed
one of her arms and started pulling her up.  "You wasn't hurt all that
much."

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, the young girl, with amazingly quick
reflexes, grabbed Tucker's pistol and pulled it from his holster.

"What the hell?"  Tucker shouted aloud, backing away from her
quickly.

If he hadn't been half-drunk, and if he hadn't been caught totally by
surprise, she never would have managed to get his gun.  But have it she
did, and Tucker, feeling absolute panic welling up inside of him, held
both hands out in front of him, as if by that action to push her
away.

"What are you going to do?"  he asked in fear.  "Girl, I was just
funnin' with you!  I didn't mean you no harm!"

Carlotta, her eyes wide and wild-looking, pointed the pistol toward
him.  The barrel was wavering.

"Girl!  Put that gun down!  It's liable to go off!"

Then, in a move that was as unexpected as the move which had secured
the pistol for her in the first place, Carlotta turned the gun toward
herself.  Flushing the barrel in between her breasts, still exposed
because he had ripped away her dress, she pulled the trigger.

"What the-" Tucker shouted over the sound of the shot as he saw
Carlotta go down with blood pumping from the large wound in her
chest.

She fell flat on her back in the road with her arms spread out on
either side.

The pistol, a little wisp of smoke still curling up from the end of the
barrel, was lying right beside her.

Quickly, Tucker picked up the pistol and held it for a moment, as if
somehow this young, mortally wounded girl might rise up and attack
him.

Tucker had been in many gunfights, and he had almost lost count of the
number of men he had killed, but never, after any of them, had he
experienced the same sort of disquiet he was feeling now.

"What the hell did you do that for, you crazy bitch?"  he asked.

He looked down at her for a full moment longer, then, convinced that
she was dead, he walked slowly back to his horse, mounted it, and
continued his ride to Inferno Ranch.

16

Guzman When Win Coulter rode into Guzman the next morning, the whole
town was talking about the body of the young Mexican girl that had been
found on the road.

She had been brought into town, but already Don Montoya and four of his
men had come for her.  They put her body in the back of a wagon,
covered her with a tarpaulin, and were about to start back out to
Trinidad when Montoya saw Win.  He rode over to him.

"You have heard, senor?  About the young senorita who would have become
my sister-in-law?"

"Yes, Don Montoya," Win said.  "I have just heard.  I'm very sorry."

"Who could do such a thing?"  Montoya asked.  "She was so young, and
beautiful."

"I hope you don't think it was anyone from the Tumbling C," Win said.

Montoya shook his head.  "No, I do not think that.  I think she was
attacked, on the road, by someone who is not a man but is a monster.

What I do not know is why she was on the road, so far from the
house."

With a sad shake of his head, Montoya turned his head and looked back
toward the wagon which, by now, was at the far end of the street.  "To
be raped and murdered like that?"  He shook his head.  "This has
nothing to do with a range war, senor.  This is the act of someone who
is truly evil."

"I agree, Don Montoya," Win said.

Montoya sighed.  "I know that Carlotta was very good friends with
Senorita Clark.  Would you tell her for me what happened?  Such news,
though distressing, cannot be as bad as the loss she is already
suffering."

"I'll tell her," Win promised.

"Muchas gracias."  Montoya touched his hand to the brim of his large,
silver-embroidered sombrero, then turned his horse and urged it into a
brief gallop in order to enable him to catch up with the others.

As Win watched Montoya ride away, he happened to see Loomis Tucker
standing just outside the saloon door.  Tucker didn't see him, because
he was staring intently at the wagon bearing Carlotta's body out of
town.

At that instant, almost as if he had received some sort of spiritual
enlightenment, Win knew that Loomis Tucker was the one who'd killed
Carlotta.

"You son of a bitch!"  Win swore under his breath.  "In the last two
days you have killed John Henry Clark and Carlotta Sanchez.  Mr.
Tucker, you've got a lot to answer for.

Half an hour later, Win was in the back of the general store, looking
over the supply of coffins.

"Can you believe that Mexican didn't even buy a coffin?  He claims he
has carpenters on the ranch, and they'll build the coffin for that
girl.

But, of course," Fuller said, dismissing the whole thing with a shrug
of his shoulders, "they are Mexicans.  And ever'one knows that Mexicans
do things different.  Now, Mr.  Coulter, what can I do for you?"

"I'm here to buy a coffin for Mr.  Clark," Win said.

Fuller, who had been visibly disappointed over losing a sale to
Montoya, now brightened.

"Ah, yes," he said.  "Yes, indeed."  He assumed a practiced look of
sorrow.  "I was much distressed to hear of Mr. Clark's demise.  He was
one of our community's finest citizens.  And as such, he deserves the
finest coffin modern science can offer."

"What do you have?"  Win asked.

The confident smile of a salesman returned.  "Well, this is a
particularly nice one," the store owner said.  "It is said that this is
the same style coffin used to bury Abraham Lincoln."  Gene Fuller was,
in addition to the undertaker, storekeeper for the general store, and
he proudly displayed a sign in front of his store which read: Gene
Fuller Mercantile and Undertaking Service, providing for all mankind,
from the cradle to the grave.

"Saying they used it to bury Lincoln doesn't make that much of an
impression on me," Win replied.  "I fought with the South."

"Yes, to be sure, as did most of us here," Fuller adlibbed quickly in
order that his faux pas not lose him the sale.

"But the coffin looks all right," Win continued.

"Oh, Mr. Coulter, it is far better than 'all right,'" Fuller
insisted.

"This is our very best model, and as you can see, it is really quite
beautiful."

The coffin had a highly polished black finish, trimmed in silver, and
lined with red satin.

"It's very popular with the womenfolk.  And I believe you did say you
were making the coffin selection for Miss Clark?"

"Yes."

Win ran his hand over the surface.  The finish was as smooth as silk
and the gloss was such that he could see his reflection in it.

"This is called the Eternal Cloud, and it is guaranteed for one hundred
years," Fuller explained, continuing his sales pitch.  Win cocked his
head and looked at Fuller.  "One hundred years?"

"Yes, sir.  One hundred years."

"What then?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What happens after one hundred years if the coffin hasn't held up?

Who will be here to redeem it?"

For a moment Fuller was confused, then, seeing the logic, or perhaps,
the illogic of it, he chuckled.  "Yes," he said.  "I believe you are
right.

But take my word for it.  It is a good coffin."

"Very well, I'll take it.  Have it sent out to the Tumbling C."

"Yes, sir," Fuller agreed.  "I'll take care of it for you."

Win started to leave, then looking through the window across the
street, he saw Tucker just going back into the Independence Saloon.

He felt a sense of barely controlled anger build up inside him, and
when he looked back inside, he saw a plain, pine box.  It too was a
coffin, though it was as plain a coffin as Win had ever seen.

"How much is that one?"  he asked, pointing to the pine box coffin.

"Oh, sir, you wouldn't want anything like that connected with Mr.
Clark's funeral," Fuller gasped in horror.  "Why, that is the same
style coffin the territorial government uses to bury prisoners who have
been hanged."

"The casket is not for Mr. Clark," Win said easily.  And then he
asked, "How much?"

"Five dollars," Fuller said.

Win took another five dollars from his pocket.  "I'll take it."

"You mean, in addition to the one you have just bought for Mr.
Clark?"

Fuller asked, anxious to make certain that he hadn't lost the previous
and much more lucrative sale.

"Yes."

"Very good, sir.  And what would you have me do with it?"

"You have ink and paper?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"I want to make a sign, then I'll tell you where to put the coffin."

"Yes, sir."

Fuller found Win a large piece of paper, a bottle of ink, and a
wide-quill pen.  Win got busy, and a few minutes later, finished with
his sign.

"I want you to put that coffin in the front window of your store," Win
said.  "And I want you to attach this sign to the coffin."

Fuller looked at the sign, then blanched visibly.  "Oh, uh, sir, are
you sure you want to post this sign?"

"I am absolutely sure," Win said.  "Now, put the pine box in the window
and attach this sign to it, like I told you to."

"Yes, sir," Fuller said.

Since John Henry Clark wasn't a man who often went to church, Rose
thought that a church funeral would be inappropriate.  However, she did
ask the town's only Protestant parson to conduct the service, and he
agreed.

The funeral was held at the Tumbling C Ranch, and three fourths of the
town showed up to pay their respects.  Many of the cowboys who now
worked for Poindexter also showed up.  Several of them had worked for
John Henry in the past, and even those who hadn't worked for him knew
him by reputation to be a good man who was fair to his hands.

"Miss Rose, if you'd like a good hand, I'd be more'n proud to come work
for you," Lonnie Edwards said.  Rose remembered Lonnie as a young man
who had worked for her father in the past but had gone over to Inferno,
when Poindexter promised more money.

"Lonnie, I appreciate it, I really do," Rose replied.  "But the truth
is, Dad ran the business.  I don't know whether we need another hand,
whether we can afford you, or even if we can afford the hands we have
now."

"You can afford me all right," Lonnie said.  "'Cause I'll work for
nothin' if need be.  I can't see myself workin' for Poindexter no
more.

Not after he stood by and watched Tucker gun down your pa like he
done."

Rose gasped.  "What do you mean, he stood by?  Do you mean to tell me
that Poindexter was there?"

"Yes, ma'am, he was there all right.  And the word I got is, he didn't
do nothin' a'tall to try and stop the fight from a-happening'."

Rose reached out to touch Lonnie on the arm.  "Thank you, Lonnie," she
said.  "And of course you can come work on the ranch.  I'll talk to
Deekus.

We'll pay you the same as we're paying the others, for as long as we
have any money to pay anyone."

It wasn't long after her conversation with Lonnie that Poindexter
showed up, arriving in a highly polished black carriage pulled by a
team of matching grays.  Lonnie's story had spread quickly through all
the cowboys, and many of them turned their backs, almost pointedly, as
Poindexter passed through them.  Poindexter sought out Rose to
personally extend his sympathy.

"Mr. Poindexter," Rose said, getting right to the point.  "I have been
told that you were there, that you saw my father killed."

Poindexter cleared his throat.  "Yes," he said.  "I was there."

"Why haven't you come over before now?  Why didn't you come to me right
after it happened?"

"I figured you needed some time to mourn," Poindexter replied.

"Besides, what I would have to tell you about your pa would only hurt
you more.  Didn't see much need in hurting you any more."

"What do you mean?  How could what you have to tell me hurt me more
than I am already hurting?  My father is dead, Mr. Poindexter.  What
pain is left?"

"The way he died," Poindexter said.  "The foolishness of it.  His own
foolishness," he added.

"Please, tell me how.  And tell me how it was that you happened to be
there."

"I had gone down to Polomas to see General Pedro Bustamante."

"The outlaw?"

"The revolucionario," Poindexter said.  "I will admit that Bustamante
has the reputation of being a bandido, but what he really is, Miss
Clark, is a hero to his people.  He is fighting a war against a very
unpopular government, not unlike our own Civil War not too many years
ago.  I am proud to say, by the way, that I fought for the Confederacy
during that war.  And just as I fought against an oppressive government
then, so too is Bustamante fighting an oppressive government now."

"Yes, but my father was no revolutionary.  What does all that have to
do with him?  And why was he there?"

"I'm getting to that," Poindexter said.  "I went to see Bustamante to
see if he would act as an intermediary in my fight with Montoya.  I
want this foolish war between us to end, and I thought that Bustamante,
being both a Mexican and a hero to his people, might be able to work
something out."  Poindexter paused for a moment.

"Go on," Rose said.

"Well, your pa showed up.  I didn't even know he was there.  One minute
Bustamante and I were discussing how best to make peace, and the next
minute your pa was there, making accusations that Bustamante and I were
learning up.  He started talking crazy talk, saying wild things."

"So you had Tucker shoot him?"

"No!"  Poindexter said quickly.  "No, it wasn't like that.  I just
asked Tucker to show your pa outside.  Bustamante and I were engaged in
a private conversation and things had reached a delicate stage.  The
ranting and raving of your father could have ruined it."

"How did it go from 'showing my father outside' to shooting him?"

"Tucker didn't shoot your father down in cold blood, Miss Clark.  It
was a fair gunfight."

"A fair gunfight?  What could be fair about it?  In the first place, I
was told that my father didn't even have a gun with him.  And in the
second place, what on earth would cause him to get into a gunfight with
a known gunfighter?  My father was no coward, Mr. Poindexter, but he
was a sensible man, and sensible men do not go around issuing
challenges to professional gunfighters."

"Who knows what goes through the mind of a proud man who believes he
has been wronged?  I tried to get your father to get on his horse and
leave.  I hoped he would do so, then return when tempers were cooled.

When I saw that he wouldn't do that, I did the only thing I could think
of.  I furnished your father with a gun."

"You?  You gave him the gun he used?"

"I am proud to say that I did."

"But why?  If he hadn't had a gun, he couldn't have had the fight."

"Miss Clark, I know that your father and I didn't always see eye to eye
on business, but I had a great deal of respect for him.  I couldn't
stand by and watch him get shot down in cold blood.  I figured he ought
to at least have the chance to defend himself.  I mean, you understand
that, don't you?"

"I ... I don't know," Rose said.  She had to admit that, in a terrible,
tragic way, everything Poindexter was saying to her made sense.

"One final thing," Poindexter continued.  "Now that your pa is gone, I
know that it will be very difficult--if not impossible--for you to
continue to run this ranch.  I would be honored to take over the
operation of the ranch for you."

"What do you mean?"  Rose asked.

"I would manage it, so to speak.  Join your cowboys with mine, join
your herd with mine, and run it all as one ranch.  That way you would
still have the benefits of a ranch, without the headache of running
one.  Or, of course, if you prefer, I could just buy the ranch from
you.  I wouldn't be able to pay top dollar right now, you understand.

I'm a little short of cash because of several recent business deals.

But I assure you, it would be enough money to make your life quite
comfortable."

"Thank you, Mr.  Poindexter," Rose said.  "I will think about it."

"Miss Clark," the preacher said, coming over to her then.  "If you are
ready, we'll start with the service now."

After the funeral, Rose stood at her father's graveside for a long
time, even after the others had gone, and looked at the pile of dirt
that the grave diggers were throwing down on the "Eternal Cloud"
coffin.

She had wept bitter tears of grief when she'd first learned the news,
but now her eyes were dry and her sorrow was numbed.  There remained
only anger at the brutal and senseless killing.  Finally, she left the
cemetery.

She would have to put the sorrow behind her.  She had a ranch to run,
and her "people" to look out for.  She had thought about Poindexter's
offer, just as she'd said she would, and now she had made a decision.

Rose was not going to let him manage the ranch, and she was not going
to sell to him.  Her father had spent half a lifetime building the
Tumbling C, and she was not going to let him down.  She would run it
herself.  She knew that it was what her father would want.

17

Immediately after the funeral, Win rode into town to see if Fuller had
followed his instructions.  It wasn't long after he arrived in the
saloon that he knew Fuller had done what Win had asked of him.  He knew
it from the buzz of curious questioning that was going on among the
customers.

They moved from bar to table, and from table to table, to whisper the
news.

"Have you seen it?  Have you looked in Fuller's window?"

"Can you believe Fuller putting something up like that?"

"All hell's going' to break loose.  That's all I got to say about it.

All hell's going' to break loose."

Only Tucker, the small, evil-tempered gunman who worked for Poindexter,
seemed to be left out of the conversation.  At first, he was so busy
with his incessant game of solitaire that he didn't even notice he was
being systematically left out.  Then the piano stopped playing and
gradually all conversation quieted to a hushed whisper.  It wasn't
until then, until it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, that
Tucker, curious about the sudden cessation of noise, happened to glance
up.  He saw that everyone was staring at him.

"What is it?"  he asked in an irritated voice.

"What's ever'body so quiet for?  What the hell are you all looking
at?"

"Nothing," someone mumbled.

"If there is nothing, why are you all staring at me?"

"We was wonderin' if you'd seen the coffin over to Fuller's store?

And the sign he put up in it?"  one brave soul asked.

"What coffin?  What sign?"

Silently, one of the men pointed outside.  "It's not something' you
tell about, it's something' you got to see," he said.  "It's across the
street, in Fuller's store."

"All this whisperin' and carryin' on is about a coffin?  What the hell
do I care about a coffin?"

"You might be interested in this particular coffin, Mr.  Tucker."

"Why would I be?"

Although everyone continued to stare nervously at Tucker, none of them
were willing to provide him with the answer he was looking for.

"All right, I guess I am just going to have to see for myself," Tucker
said gruffly.  He got up and walked over to the batwing doors where he
stood for a moment looking down the street toward Fuller's General
Store.

A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered on the porch and in the
street in front of Fuller's store.  The crowd was growing larger, even
as Tucker stood there looking at it.

Because of the size of the crowd, Tucker couldn't see what they were
looking at in the window.

"What the hell?"  he said irritably.  "How can anyone see anything with
all those people standing there?"

He pushed through the doors, then started across the street.

"Here he comes!"  someone said.

"Get out of the way!  Let him through!"

"You all right, Mr.  Tucker?"

"Of course I'm all right.  Why shouldn't I be?"  Tucker replied.

"What's going' on here?  Why are all of you starin' at me like that?"

No one answered, but they did open up a path so he could step up onto
the porch and look into Fuller's front window.

That was when he saw the object of everyone's attention, an open pine
coffin.  Tucker stared in disbelief, not only at the coffin, but at a
hand-painted sign:

THIS COFFIN RESERVED FOR LOOMIS TUCKER Tucker pointed at the sign.

"Who did that?"  he screamed in choked anger.  "Fuller!  Fuller, you
son of a bitch!  I'll kill you for this!"

"Fuller didn't do it, Tucker.  I did," a quiet voice from the crowd
said.

Tucker whirled around at the sound of the voice, and the crowd
scattered, leaving only one person behind.

There, standing in the middle of the street calmly, almost casually,
was Win Coulter.

"Are you crazy, mister?"  Tucker asked.  "Are you lookin' to get
yourself killed?"

"No, Tucker," Win replied.  "What I'm looking for is a reason to kill
you."

Tucker smiled, a slow, evil smile.  "And have you come up with a reason
to kill me?"  he asked.

Win shook his head.  "I'm afraid I haven't," he answered.

"Well, now, I'm just real glad you couldn't come up with a reason to
kill me.  For a moment there, you had me just really scared," Tucker
said in a sarcastic tone of voice.

"I couldn't come up with a reason," Win continued, "so I decided I'm
just going' to have to kill you for the hell of it."

The evil smile froze on Tucker's face.  Tucker wasn't used to this kind
of reaction from men he faced.  Normally the reaction was one of fear,
bordering on panic.  And it was the terror that he engendered that
tended to skew the gunfights to his side.

The intimidation of his opponent was all a part of Tucker's strategy.

He figured that it normally took his adversary at least half a second
to overcome his numbing fear and start his draw.  That half a second
was all the edge Tucker needed.

But he wasn't going to realize that edge with this man, Win.  He had
never seen anyone as calm as Win Coulter was at this moment.  And,
oddly, Win's demeanor was beginning to have the same effect on Tucker
that Tucker's cold calculation normally had on the people that he
faced.

Tucker tried to push the gnawing little worm of fear back, and he
forced an evil grin, intending to regain some of the edge he had given
up.

"I'm going' to enjoy this," he said.  "I'm going to kill you now, then
go across the street and have myself a good supper."

"It's too late for supper, Tucker," Win said.  "The next meal you eat
will be breakfast.  And you'll be eatin' that in hell."

Suddenly Tucker made the move for his gun.  He was fast, so fast that,
for a split second, Win wondered if, perhaps, he might have made a
mistake.

But such thoughts, as fleeting as they were, had no bearing on the
situation now.  Both men were committed to the deadly game, and only
one would survive this confrontation.

Win beat Tucker by a fraction of a second.  He fired, his bullet
catching Tucker in the chest.  But Tucker had already sent the signal
to his trigger finger so, as he spun around, his finger, reacting too
late, pulled the trigger.  The bullet plunked into the side of a
watering trough as Tucker fell facedown in a freshly deposited horse
apple.  A stream of water arced out from the bullet hole, splashing on
the back of Tucker's neck and making brown-green tributaries of horse
manure as it ran in rivulets out into the street.  He didn't make
another move.

The display in the front of Fuller's store became even more bizarre
after Tucker was killed.  What had been an empty coffin with a sign was
now a filled coffin.  Tucker was placed in the coffin with his hands
folded across his chest.  In his right hand was his pistol.  In his
left was a knife.  His left eye was closed, his right eye half-open.

His mouth was slightly open, and his upper lip was pulled back to
disclose yellowed, crooked teeth.  He was wearing the same thing he had
on when he was shot.

The coffin was standing upright so everyone could see its contents,
quite clearly.  Someone, commenting that Tucker was always playing
solitaire, slipped a deck of cards into his shirt pocket.  "That way,
the son of a bitch can play cards in hell," he said.

Those who were gathered around laughed.

Across the street from Fuller's, in the Independence Saloon, the
conversation was spirited and the mood upbeat.  Though it was only
mid-afternoon, the saloon was as full as it normally was at night.  The
piano player was kept busy with requests for cheery songs, and loud,
masculine guffaws and the high, piercing laughter of women turned the
saloon into a cacophony of song and frolic.

Although no one actually said so, the ebullient mood was directly
related to Tucker's being killed.  He was unliked in life, and
unlamented in death.

The closest anyone came to actually mourning Tucker's passing was the
foul mood of B.J. Poindexter.  Poindexter was sitting at a table in the
back of the saloon, drinking whiskey and staring morosely into his
glass.

Katie was sitting at the table with him.

"Who would have thought Win Coulter could beat Tucker?"  Poindexter
asked.

"I guess Win thought he could," Katie replied.

"I suppose you are happy about the way the fight turned out,"
Poindexter snarled.

"Are you asking if I am happy Win killed Tucker, instead of the other
way around?  Of course I'm happy."

"You should've told me that you knew the Coulters from before the
war."

"The subject never came up."

"It has come up now, though, hasn't it?  How many times have you been
with Joe Coulter since they got here?"

"I don't know," Katie replied.  "Anyway, why should it bother you?

I'm a working girl, you know that.  I've been with many men."

"Yes, but you haven't been with any of them the same way you have been
with Joe Coulter.  You haven't even been with me the way you have been
with Joe Coulter."

"It's my job."

"No.  With Joe Coulter, it's more than a job.  You like it too much."

"Whether or not I like Joe Coulter has nothing to do with my being glad
that his brother killed Tucker.  It wouldn't matter who killed Tucker,
I would feel the same way.  And, surely, you can't say that you
actually liked that evil little man?"  Katie said.

"Like him?"  Poindexter replied.  "No, I didn't like the son of a
bitch.  How can anyone like somebody like Tucker?"

"Then why are you sitting here with such a sour expression on your
face?"

"Because when you do business the way I do business, you need someone
like Tucker," Poindexter answered.  "He was a useful tool.  Now that
tool is gone, and I have no one to replace him."

"What kind of tool could someone like Tucker be?"

"He was a fast gun," Poindexter answered.  "Only it turns out that Win
Coulter was faster.  Funny, I knew Coulter during the war, saw him in
battle many times, and never knew that he was that fast."

"I wouldn't think being fast would necessarily be a requirement for a
soldier," Katie suggested.  "I mean, it's just a matter of fighting and
killing, isn't it?  You don't move out into the middle of the
battlefield and challenge the enemy to draw, do you?"

Poindexter looked at Katie with a strange expression on his face.

"No," he said.  "You don't."  He stood up and looked down at her.

"Let's go upstairs."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, let's go upstairs.  I got me a need."

"Now?  It's the middle of the afternoon," Katie said.

"So what does that matter?  We've done it in the daytime before."

"But, not now ... not after all that's happened," Katie said.

"What has happened that would have anything to do with whether or not
we go upstairs?"

"You know what I'm talking about.  First Mr. Clark was killed, then
that poor little Mexican girl.  And now Tucker."

"I don't see that that has anything to do with anything," Poindexter
said.  "I didn't like Clark or Tucker in the first place.  And the
girl?

Hell, she's just another Mexican as far as I'm concerned, and there
isn't much difference between them and Indians.  It's no loss when one
of them are killed, be they man or woman."

"I don't feel that way.  A human life is a human life.  And I don't
think it would be proper for us to bed together."

"You don't give any more of a damn about Clark or Tucker than I do,"
Poindexter said.  "And you're just using the Mexican girl as an
excuse.

You don't want me to share your bed, because you've got Joe Coulter on
your mind."

"All right, I'll admit it, he is on my mind," Katie said.  "And if you
are honest with yourself, you'll have to admit that he's on your mind
too.

Surely you must be questioning how you feel about me, now that Joe has
showed up."

Poindexter snorted.  "How I feel about you?  What the hell are you
talking about?  None of that has changed.  You've never been anything
more to me than a good-looking woman to take care of my needs.  Well,
like I said, I've got needs now, so let's go upstairs and take care of
'em."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"  Poindexter asked coldly.  "You don't have the
right to say no to me."

"I've got the right to say no to anyone I want."

Poindexter leaned over the table and put his hand to her neck.  She
felt something sharp pressing against her skin and she gasped.

"That's right, Cat.  It's a knife," he said.  "One twitch of my hand
and I'll cut your jugular open.  You'll bleed to death in less than a
minute."

"You wouldn't dare.  Not here, in front of everyone."

"I'll put the knife in your hand, then tell everyone that you cut your
own throat in remorse because Joe Coulter wouldn't take you away.  I'll
give you a big funeral, and tell everyone how much I am going to miss
you.

And don't think the fact that you are a woman will stop me.  I killed
plenty of women during the war."  He smiled evilly.  "Including a few I
had just been with," he added.

"I ... I believe you would at that," Katie said.

"Now, let's go upstairs," Poindexter said.  "Like I told you ... I got
needs.

18

Upstairs in her room, Katie started to take off her dress.

"Don't bother with any of the niceties," Poindexter said gruffly.  He
grabbed her and threw her down on the bed.

"You don't have to do this," she protested.  "I'll give you what you
want."

"Shut up!"  Poindexter said, slapping her savagely.

"Ow!  Why are you-" "I said, shut up!"  Poindexter said, slapping her
again--harder this time than before.  "You aren't giving me anything,
bitch.  I'm taking it."

Poindexter reached down and tore her dress from her, ripping it down
the front, then pulling it open so that she presented him with her
naked body.  Reflexively, Katie tried to hold her legs together, but
not only was the effort futile, in his present state of mind it seemed
to be exactly what Poindexter wanted.

When Katie felt his full weight on her, she wanted to scream.  She had
been "on the line" for a long time now, and had been with more men than
she could count.  Some had been gentle, and some had been brutal, but
none had treated her as savagely as this.

She felt a rough texture against her legs, and realized that Poindexter
had not even bothered to drop his trousers, but had only unbuttoned his
pants.  He pushed and grunted against her until, finally, a moan
escaped from his lips and she felt him shuddering over her.  Then he
withdrew from her and stood by the side of the bed, looking down at her
used body, exposed by the torn dress.  He rebuttoned his pants.

"Damn," he said.  "That's the best I've had from you since I've known
you."

"You didn't have to do it that way," Katie complained.

"Yeah, I did.  I gave you your chance, and you told me you didn't want
to.  Well, I got news for you, missy.  I liked it better this way."

There was a demonic gleam in his eyes.  "Fact is, this is the way we're
going' to do it every time from now on."

Katie raised her right arm and, crooked at the elbow, lay the forearm
across her eyes.  She made no effort to shield her exposed body from
his gaze.  Instead, she chose not to look at him.

"You said something downstairs that I've been thinking about,"
Poindexter said as he continued to straighten his clothes.

"What is that?"  Katie asked softly.  Her arm was still over her
eyes.

"War."

"War?"

"You said, in a war it doesn't matter whether someone is fast with a
gun or not.  Funny you would have to point that out to me, seem' as
I've been in a war and you haven't."  Katie said nothing.  "So, I
figure the best way to beat someone who is really fast with a pistol is
to get them in a war."

"You aren't making any sense.  There isn't any war."

"There's about to be," Poindexter said.  "I've got nearly a hundred
hands working for me at Inferno.  That'll make a pretty good-sized
army.

First thing I'm going to do is clear out what's left of the Tumbling
C.

After that, I'm going to attack Trinidad."

Now Katie lowered her arm and stared at him with a horrified expression
on her face.  "You don't mean that.  If you do that, you'll cause a
bloodbath."

"Yes, well, that's the way it is in a war," Poindexter said.  He opened
the door, but before he left, he turned back toward the bed and
smiled.

Somehow, the smile was even more frightening than his words had been.

"It's going to be good between you and me from now on," he said.

"Yes, sir, real good."

He left, shutting the door behind him, and Katie lay on the bed,
finally giving in to the tears.  She had held them back until now, just
because she didn't want to let the bastard see her cry.

Joe Coulter had just finished washing up for supper and was reaching
for the towel when he saw Katie come riding up to the ranch house.

"Katie Ann!"  he said, smiling broadly.  "What are you doing out
here?"

"Joe, you've got to warn the others.  Poindexter's coming."

"Poindexter?"

"With a hundred men," she said.  "He's going to make war against the
Tumbling C!"

"ONE HUNDRED MEN?"  DEEKUS GASPED, WHEN JOE TOOK Katie over to the
bunkhouse to tell Win and the others of Poindexter's plan.  "My God!

We can never fight off one hundred men!"

"How many men do we have?"  Win asked.

"No more'n ten or twelve, and that's countin' the cook," Deekus said.

"Thirteen, counting me," a woman's voice said, and they all turned to
see Rose standing there, having been brought by curiosity when, from
the house, she saw everyone gathered around the woman she knew as Cat
Clay.

"Fourteen," Katie said.

Deekus rubbed his chin.  "Even so, fourteen against a hundred ... them
sure ain't good odds.  And two of ours is women."

"I can shoot a rifle, Deekus," Rose said.  "And the bullet that comes
from the end of the rifle doesn't know if it has been launched by a man
or a woman.  It is just as deadly."

"Yes, ma'am, you got that right," Deekus agreed.

"Win, what about Montoya?"  Rose asked.  "If we get word to him that we
are being attacked by the Inferno, maybe he will help."

"Good idea," Win said.  "Lonnie, you want to ride over to Trinidad and
tell Montoya what's going on?"

"Wait a minute, Lonnie, I'll write a letter," Rose said.

"I'll saddle my horse," Lonnie replied.

"You really think we can fight them off?"  Deekus asked.

"Yes, thanks to Katie's warning," Win answered.  He smiled at Katie and
Joe, who was standing with his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her
affectionately.

"I don't know, if a hundred of them come ..."  Deekus hedged.

"Look at it this way," Win said.  "They won't come until after
nightfall, and when they do come, they'll be on horseback, out in the
open.

We will be hidden in the dark and behind cover.  Now, which would you
rather be?"

"Yeah," Deekus said.  His worried expression fell away to be replaced
by a smile.  "Yeah, I see what you mean.  They'll be sittin' ducks."

"That's the way of it."

"So, what do we do first?"  Deekus asked.

"First, we eat supper," Win replied.  "No sense in trying to fight on
an empty stomach."

"I was hoping you would say that," Joe said, and the others laughed,
somewhat relieving the tension of the moment.

Win ate quickly, then went outside.  The sun was low in the west,
giving them, by his reckoning, another hour of light.  They would need
the light to set up the am bush.  Joe came out after a few minutes, to
stand beside him.

"How is it going in there?"  Win asked.

"They're loading their rifles and pistols," Joe said.  He chuckled.

"You've got them about half-convinced it will be a picnic.  They're
actually looking forward to it."

"Well, it's not going to be quite as easy as I described," Win said.

"But I had to make it sound like that, otherwise several of them might
decide to leave.  Then we really would be in a mess."

"They're good boys, most of them," Joe said.  "I don't think they'll
run out on us.  Now, what do you have in mind?"

"I think we should have the men dig themselves rifle pits," Win said.

"There, there, there, and there," he added, pointing out the places.

"That way we'll be able to catch them in a cross fire when they
arrive."

"What about blasting powder?"  Joe asked.  "If we could put a few bombs
here and there, we might have a surprise for them."

Win nodded.  "Yes, that's a real good idea.  Tell you what.  I'll get
the men started on the rifle pits, while you and Deekus take care of
the powder.  Then I'm going to find someplace where I can see who's
coming.

That should give us a little advanced warning."

"I could go up to Red Rock Escarpment and keep a watch," Rose
proposed.

She was just returning from the house with the letter she had written
to Montoya.  Lonnie, his horse now saddled, was leading his animal over
to them, from the stable.

"No," Win said.  "There's no telling when Poindexter might come.  It
could be just after dark, around midnight, or as late as before dawn
tomorrow morning.  Whoever is up there is going to have to stay awake
all night."

"You don't think I can stay awake all night?"

"Maybe you can," Win agreed.  "But I've done it many times before.  I
think it would be easier, and safer, if I did it."

"Safer?  You mean for me?"

"Yes."

"If Poindexter comes over here and takes over my ranch, how safe do you
think I'll be?"

"I'm not going to argue with you, Rose," Win said.

Rose sighed.  "All right, all right, do it your way.  But I would like
to ride up there with you, if you don't mind."

"There's no need in-" "Win, please?"  Rose said.  "You ... you know
what that place means to me.  I might not get to ... I mean, if things
don't go well ..."  She let the sentence hang.

Win realized at once what she meant, and he relented.  "All right," he
said.  "You can come up with me.  But after your visit, I want you to
come back down here."

"All right," she said, flashing him a large, happy smile.  "And thank
you."

WIN RODE ALONG BEHIND ROSE AS THEY CLIMBED THE trail to her lookout.

It only took about five minutes of easy riding, and Win figured that,
in returning, he could cover the same distance in under two minutes if
necessary.  Once there, they dismounted and Win looked around.

Overhead, the stars glistened like diamonds on black velvet.  In the
distance, the Red Rock Escarpment rose in a great and mysterious dark
slab of rock against the night sky.  An owl landed nearby and his wings
made a soft whirr as he flew.  The owl looked at Win with great, round,
glowing eyes.

"I love it up here," Rose said, her voice wistful, as if she were
telling it good-bye.

"I can see why you like it," Win said.  "It's a very nice place."

"It's magical," Rose said.

A soft night breeze pushed across the glade, and Rose shivered once as
it caressed her skin.  There was a scent of wildflowers on the air.

"Win, will I be able to come up here ... after?"  Rose asked.

"You're asking me how the battle is going to come out."

"Yes.  I suppose I am."

Win shrugged.  "I was a little more positive with your men because I
was building up their confidence.  It probably won't be as easy as I
painted it ... but I do think we'll win."

Rose laughed softly.  "You aren't just trying to build up my
confidence, are you?"

"No," Win said.  He walked out to the edge of the precipice and looked
in the direction of Inferno.  "I figure they'll come from that
direction when they come, so I should see them in plenty of time to
give a warning."

"Will Montoya respond to my letter?"  Rose asked.  She came out to
stand beside him.

"I think he will," Win said.  "It would certainly be to his
advantage."

He turned and looked at her.  "Rose, I think it is about time you got
back down there," he suggested.

"All right."

"When you get back, tell the boys not to be too trigger-happy.  I don't
want to get shot coming back down to warn you.  And if Montoya and his
men do show up, I wouldn't want them shot either."

Rose started to leave, then she turned back toward Win, with her eyes
shining brightly.

"Oh, Win, is it evil of me?  I know there is about to be a battle ...

but I am more excited than frightened."

Win chuckled.  "If it's evil, then it is a malady that affects
everyone.  Men talk about how terrible war is, and there is always
fear, just before a battle.  But there is another side too, a darker
side.

There's something inside humans that makes them crave battle."

"Have you ever felt that exhilaration?"

"Of course I have," Win admitted.  "And, in a way, I suppose it isn't
all that bad.  It's what people draw on, to give them courage."

Rose came back to Win, then kissed him on the mouth.  At first her lips
were cool and the kiss was controlled.  But quickly it grew hotter and
deeper.

"I ... I don't understand it," Rose said breathlessly as she pulled
away from him.  "I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to make love!

How can that be, under such circumstances?"

"It happens," Win said.  "I don't know why, but I do know it's
something common in folks when danger is the greatest."

"Have you ever felt it?"

"Have I felt it?  I feel it now."

"Win, do we have time to say a very special good-bye?"

"No ... we'd better not," Win started, but even as he was telling her
no, she was pulling her dress over her head.  "Rose-" "Hush," Rose
said.  Nude, she kissed him again, pressing her body hard against his
and opening her mouth hungrily to seek out his tongue.

No longer able or willing to resist her, Win wound his arms around her
tightly as he pulled her even closer to him, feeling the heat of her
body transferring itself to him.

"Well, now," Rose said throatily, as she felt Win's growing erection
pushing against her.  "Your words said no, but your body says yes."

Win wasn't saying anything now.  His mouth was dry, and he could feel
the blood pounding in his temples as he ran his hands over her
shoulders, then across her firm, nipple-crowned breasts.

Rose unbuttoned Win's trousers, then took him out.  She lifted her
bare, right leg and hooked it around him to make the connection.

"Are we going to do it standing up?"  Win asked in surprise.

"You ... uh ... talk ... too ... much!"  Rose grunted, as she pulled
him into her.

Win grabbed her naked buttocks with his hands, holding her to him as
again and again he thrust into her.  He looked down at her and tipped
her head back so he could look into her face.  He saw her lips pulled
back against her pearl-white teeth, and a grimace, not unlike one of
pain, though he knew this expression was one of pure passion.

Win continued to pump away for several moments.  She moaned and groaned
and thrashed, sometimes shuddering in uncontrollable spasms.

Rose bucked against him every time he pumped against her, and he could
feel himself going deep inside as he mashed against her, stomach to
stomach, chest against her bare, sweat-covered breasts.

"Oh ... oh ... oh!"  she said, barking in pleasure and writhing
uncontrollably now.  He could feel her spasmatic orgasm bursting over
her, and it brought on his own.  He spewed a hot, gushing blast,
pounding and thrusting against her, time after time as the waves of
muscular contractions swept up from the soles of his feet, down from
his scalp, around from the middle of his back, and deep from within his
gut, finally spending itself through a penis that, even as it began to
relax, continued to throb with sensation.

After that, they stood still for a long, silent moment, wrapped in each
other's arms.  Finally, with a reluctant sigh, Rose pulled away from
him and began reaching for her scattered clothes.

"Well, all right then," she said, as if nothing had happened.  "I'll go
down and deliver your message to the others."

Win laughed.

Two miles away, as Lonnie rode at a ground-eating lope toward Trinidad,
a lone rifle shot banged in the night.

Lonnie grabbed his chest, then tumbled back out of his saddle and fell
to the road where he lay perfectly still.  His horse loped on a few
feet farther, then, realizing that he had lost his rider, stopped.

"The Boss was right," the shooter said, reading the letter Lonnie was
carrying.  "They was going to go into cahoots with Montoya."

19

It was four o'clock in the morning before Poindexter began gathering
his men for the attack on the Tumbling C. The night before, he had
pulled them from the whorehouses and out of the saloons.  Some he found
passed out in the street, and one was lying half-in and half-out of a
water trough.

When one of his riders brought him the letter Lonnie was carrying to
Trinidad, Poindexter knew that his element of surprise had been
compromised, probably by that slut Cat.

Never mind.  There was more than one way to skin the cat.

"Skin the cat!  That's a good one," he said, laughing to himself.

"Skin the cat!  That's a real good one."  Especially since he planned
to personally see to it that Cat was skinned.

As Poindexter and his men rode through the predawn darkness toward the
Tumbling C, he looked around at the riders who composed his army.  Over
the last several months he had been gathering drifters, more for their
ability to fight than to work.  Except for the cowboys who had come
with the ranches he had taken over, no one who worked for him was worth
a damn when it came to real work.  Once this was all over he planned to
send them on their way.  And he would be damned glad to be rid of
them.

Win was on the rim of the canyon waiting for them.  Years of surviving
by wits and instinct had taught him the trick of being alert, even
while he was asleep.  He knew that staying awake the entire night would
dull his edge.  On the other hand, he couldn't sleep so deeply that
Poindexter and his men would be able to ride in without being observed
either.  Therefore he had taken a series of naps, dozing off for a few
minutes, then waking up, then dozing off again.

When Poindexter's men finally did come riding up, Win awakened with a
scent of danger in his nostrils and his skin tingling in
anticipation.

It was just before dawn, and a tiny sliver of pink stretched across the
eastern horizon.  He moved out onto the rim and looked down at the
road.

There they were, moving like shadows through the early morning
darkness.

Win had left his horse saddled, and now he mounted and urged it back
down the draw.  He moved as quickly as he could without breaking into a
gallop.  A gallop, he feared, would alert Poindexter.  Joe greeted him
as soon as he arrived.  "See anything?"

"They're coming," Win said calmly.

"Good.  We're ready for them."

"Where are the others?"

"I've got them positioned just where you said they should be.  We'll
have ole Poindexter in a cross fire the moment he comes into range."

"And the powder?"

"I've got half a dozen bombs planted, with fuses laid right to my spot
over there."

"Good.  Set 'em off when you think they'll do the most damage."

It was light, the soft gray of early dawn, by the time Poindexter and
his men came riding up, spread wide, moving slowly and quietly.  They
rode up close to the ranch house, then Poindexter held his hand up in a
signal to halt.  They stopped and stood like a row of statues, looking
at the house, searching for any sign of life.

WIN LOOKED TOWARD ALL THE RIFLE PiTs.  HE SAW THE Tumbling C people in
position, waiting for the signal.  He looked at the pit closest to him,
then raised his finger to his lips in a sign to keep quiet, then he
pointed to the next pit, indicating that the signal should be passed
along.

Joe nodded and passed the signal on to Deekus's pit, who passed it on
to Rose's pit.  Everyone was absolutely quiet, totally still, as
Poindexter and his men surveyed the house.

"THERE DON'T SEEM TO BE NO ONE AROUND," SOMEONE said.  His voice
carried well in the stillness of dawn, and Win and the others could
hear every word.

"Maybe they hightailed it on outta here," someone else suggested.

"They didn't run," Poindexter replied.  "The Coulters rode with
Quantrill and me.  I know them well.  They didn't run.  You, Mitch,
ride up to the house and have a look around."

"All right, Boss," the man named Mitch replied.  He slapped his heels
against the sides of his horse, then urged the animal up toward the
quiet house.  He cocked his rifle as he approached and held it across
his saddle at the ready.  He stopped about fifteen yards away from the
front porch.

"Hello in there!"  he called.  "Anyone here?"

When no one answered, Mitch looked back toward Poindexter and the
others.  Poindexter indicated, with hand signals, that Mitch should
dismount and have a closer look.  Mitch swung down and, carrying his
rifle at the ready, walked up onto the porch to knock on the door.

"Miss Clark!  Miss Clark, you in there?"  When he got no answer, he
walked over to the window and looked in.  After that, he hopped down
off the porch and walked all the way around the house, peering in every
window.

He reappeared from the back side.

"Ain't nobody here!"  he yelled.

"Go inside.  Make sure!"  Poindexter ordered.

Mitch leaned his rifle against the wall of the house and pulled his
pistol, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.  Poindexter and
the others waited quietly for a few moments.  Soon, Mitch reappeared,
waving both arms.

"What do we do now, Boss?"  one of the men asked.  "You want to burn
the place down?"

"Burn it?  Hell no!  I aim to move in here.  I sure as hell don't want
to burn it."

Win drew a bead on Poindexter's chest.  He could drop him now, and
Poindexter would never know what hit him.  It wasn't a very sporting
way to kill a man.

Win held that position for a long moment, not quite ready to kill a man
from ambush.  Then he recalled the war, and the battles he had been in
then.  He had lost track of the number of men he had killed in battle,
and many of them never saw the man who killed them.  They had been good
men too, for the most part.  They were soldiers who were fighting for
what they believed in.  It just so happened that they had been wearing
a different colored uniform, so Win killed them.

If he could kill decent men in such a way, he certainly should have no
compunctions about squeezing the trigger on this bastard.

"Poindexter, most of the time when someone says, 'Go to hell,' they're
just saying that," Win said under his breath.  "But I'm saying it now,
and that's exactly where I intend to send you."  Win squeezed the
trigger.

The rifle barked and kicked back against his shoulder.  He saw a puff
of dust rise from Poindexter's chest, saw the ranch owner raise his
hands in surprise, then fall off his horse.

"Son of a bitch!"  someone shouted.  "They're outside!"

Joe set off a blast, and two or three of the Inferno riders fell.

The firing started in general then, the Inferno riders panicked by the
surprise ambush and disoriented by the fact that their leader had
fallen with the very first shot.  In desperation, they began firing
back.

Joe had spread his powder charges across the field like a fan, and as
he went to work, the earth erupted in a series of horrendous
explosions.

Men and horses flew through the air in sickening chunks.  The shock
effect halted the Inferno riders in their tracks, making them easy
targets for the Tumbling C men.  They were caught in a devastating
cross fire and they crumpled under the bullets, going down one by
one.

Finally Mitch threw down his weapon and put up his hands.  "No!  No!

Don't shoot us no more!  We give up!  We give up!"  The others followed
suit so that, within a moment, every remaining Inferno man had thrown
down his arms and put up his hands.

"Cease fire, cease fire!"  Win shouted.

As the sound of the final gunshot rolled back in an echo from the
canyon walls, the smoke began drifting away.  Now, after several
moments of rifle fire and bomb blasts, the battlefield was quiet.

A moment later it was obvious that the quiet was deceptive, because it
was broken by the sobbing and groaning of wounded men.  Gradually, the
defenders began coming out of their positions.

"Who's in charge here?"  Win asked.

The men looked around at each other, then Mitch shook his head.

"Truth to tell, mister, I don't reckon there's anyone in charge now,"
Mitch finally said.

"Well, you seem to have more sense than most of the ones left," Win
said.  "I'll put you in charge."

"Yes, sir, I'll be in charge," Mitch said.

"Now, would you like a little advice?"

With his hands still in the air and his eyes still wide with fright,
Mitch nodded.

"My advice to you is to get your wounded and your dead out of here,"
Win said.  "Then, don't ever let me see any of you again, anywhere
...

ever.  If you even hear my name, you'd better give me a wide berth.

You got that?"

"Yes, sir," Mitch answered.

"That goes for all of you," he said louder.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Coulter.  We ain't none of us ever going' to cross
paths with you again."

"Now get the hell out of here."

Although not one Tumbling C rider was hurt during the battle, their
celebration was sobered an hour later, when Montoya personally brought
Lonnie's body back to the ranch.  Montoya knew nothing of the morning's
battle until Rose filled him in.

"I have no idea what will happen to Inferno now," Rose said.

"I have a suggestion, senorita, if it meets with your approval."

"What is that?"

"Before evil came to our range, disguised as the man, Poindexter, we
were a happy and productive valley.  Many of the good people who owned
the ranches were cheated out of them.  Perhaps you and I, working
together, can help those people regain their land and, once again, our
valley can be a happy place."

"Oh, Senor Montoya, I can think of nothing I would like better."  She
looked over at Win and smiled.  "Well, perhaps one thing," she said.

"But I know that it is never to be."

"Senor Montoya," Katie said then, "you don't think all of the former
owners will come back, will they?"

"No, senorita, not all will come back.  But we will find as many as we
can, and return their land to them."

"I would like to buy some land.  Perhaps the ranch of one of the former
owners who chooses not to return."

"You, senorita?  A woman?"

"Why not?  A woman owns Tumbling C."

Montoya smiled.  "Si, this is true."  He looked at Rose.  "Senorita
Clark, do you have any objections?"

"No, none at all.  I think Katie would be a wonderful neighbor," Rose
said.

"Katie, are you sure you want to do this?"  Joe asked.

Katie put her hand on Joe's arm.  "Joe, I'm not trying to talk you into
doing anything you don't want to do," she said.  "Whether you ever want
to come back to me or not, this is what I want.  I want to feel like a
decent human being once more.  And, if you ever do find yourself in
this part of the country again, well, you'll have a hook for your hat
... and a bed you can slide your boots under."

"Win Coulter, that goes for you as well," Rose said.  "You might like
living next door to your brother."

Win and Joe looked at each other, and for a long moment, Win thought
Joe might actually take Katie up on her offer.  In fact, if he admitted
it to himself, Rose's offer held a strong appeal for him as well.

Finally he looked back at Rose and Katie.  They had noticed the glance
exchanged by the two brothers, and for a fleeting moment held on to
what had seemed an irrational hope.

Then they saw the look in Win's and Joe's eyes, and they knew that they
had lost their bid.

"I'm not going to say yes," Win said.  "And I'm not going to say no."

Rose's eyebrows raised in question.  "Then, what are you going to say?"
 she asked.

"I'm going to say, not yet."

Katie looked quickly at Joe.

"I'll go along with that," Joe said.

"Good enough, I reckon," Katie said.  She smiled, then stepped up to
Joe and kissed him.

"And I'll go along with that," Rose added, and, like Katie, she stepped
up to kiss Win, doing so to the accompaniment of a few good-natured
whistles and cat-calls from the cowboys.

The two brothers rode away from the ranch, saying nothing to each other
for nearly an hour.  When the rain came up, they pulled out their
slickers and hunkered down inside them, riding on, lost in their own
private thoughts.

With no sense of destination or purpose, Win turned north.  Joe went
with him.