Rick Stancell had been drawn from the garage by ululating sirens, startled at the sight of the Grundys' ambulance bringing up the rear of a motley parade. There had not been sufficient time for them to get to Tucson, let alone return, and that meant someone must have stopped them on the highway. Rick observed the squad car at the head of the procession, realized its driver and his passengers were not in proper uniform, and knew that something had gone desperately wrong in Santa Rosa. He thought of Dr. Kent's phone, and his own back at the service station. Dead. And suddenly his father's beating seemed a part of something larger and more sinister, a threat not only to the Stancell family, but to the town at large.

Rick listened from the sidelines as the tall Hispanic stranger made his statement, sparred with Enoch Snyder, finally calling up the guns. It was apparent that the town was under siege, perhaps cut off from any contact with the outside world, but Rick's predominant concern was for his father. Dr. Kent had made it clear that he was desperately in need of treatment that the local clinic could not offer, and prolonged delays while strangers played their macho games in Santa Rosa might prove fatal. Rick was tempted to approach the leader of the raiding party, make a personal appeal, but something told him that he might as well be talking to the wall.

The dark man finished threatening his audience and smiled. In stilted, formal tones, he offered them "a lesson," something to consider if they were tempted to defy him. At a gesture, one of his companions backed the ambulance around until it stood directly in the middle of the street, its double rear doors pointed toward the combination grocery store and post office. At a finger snap, two gunners trotted to the van, swung back the doors and reached inside. Rick froze in shock as work boots wriggled into view, pursued by khaki legs, the swollen paunch of Amos Grundy. The gunmen dumped his body on the pavement as though it were a sack of grain, reaching back inside to haul his brother out and place them side by side. The flaccid postures, ragged wounds and crusty, drying blood left no doubt that both men were dead.

Rick held his breath, already sick with horror as a third limp body was wrestled from the inside of the ambulance. He did not have to see the battered face, now vented with a bullet wound above one eye, to recognize his father. The remains of breakfast came up and Rick was doubled over, retching, by the time Bud Stancell's body hit the pavement in the middle of the street.

He could hear a woman sobbing somewhere behind him, two men cursing softly beneath their breath. The world was spinning, tilting crazily beneath his feet, and for a moment Rick was frightened that he might collapse, lose consciousness, before he had a chance to break away. The blinding rush of panic-rage was fading, and while he longed to lock his hands around the stranger's neck, move on when he was finished there to throttle each of his companions in their turn, Rick knew that he could never hope to reach his target in his present state. A rush from where he stood, barehanded, would be tantamount to suicide, and he was suddenly committed to survival. Long enough, at least, to pay back something of the debt he owed to nameless men whom he had never seen before this afternoon.

He straightened slowly and with difficulty, and turned his back upon the hollow shell that once had been his father. There was nothing he could do to spare his father from the pain and the indignity he had suffered in his final hours, but there might be something Rick could do to even up the score. His father kept a .38 at the garage, in case of robberies, and while there had been no occasion for its use, he had kept the weapon oiled and loaded. Rick had failed to check to see if it was still in place this morning, but if it had not been taken by the men who had attacked his father...

There was still a chance that he could have some measure of revenge, and while he knew that it would never be the same again, it might just be enough to keep his mind within the borderlines of sanity. But first... he thought of Amy Schultz with sudden longing, totally divorced from sex, and knew that he should see her, just once more, before he took a last, irrevocable step against his enemies. Avoiding glances from the other citizens of Santa Rosa, stepping wide around the hands that sought to stroke him in condolence, Rick struck off in the direction of the hardware store.

He had promised them an hour, and Luis Rivera was a man who kept his word from time to time. No more than forty minutes left, but he would wait and see if any of the gringos had a shred of common sense. If one of them had seen the soldier, even sheltered him at home, it would be so easy to step forward, save himself, his family, by offering the information Rivera sought. Of course, it would save no one in the long run; all of them would have to die, now that Rivera had been bold and brash enough to show his face, but no one in the tiny town of Santa Rosa knew that. Yet.

Rivera honored promises as long as they were useful to him. In a business deal, if he agreed to pay a large supplier on delivery of merchandise, he kept his word, thereby ensuring future shipments. If he made the promise to an independent runner, trying to retire in sunny Florida on income from a one-off deal, he simply took the merchandise by force, retired the would-be dealer to a sandy grave, and went about his business. Compared to some of his competitors, Rivera was a paragon of virtue. You could trust him just as far as you could see him, on a foggy day.

With Hector, Esteban, and half a dozen of his gunners, he had moved inside the air-conditioned diner, seeking refuge from the sun. His other troops were left on guard around the vehicles and out back, preventing any two-bit local from attempting to become a hero overnight. The bodies from the ambulance still lay on Main Street, lined up on the center stripe, and they would soon begin to smell. Rivera didn't mind, especially — he was accustomed to the stench of death from long experience — and the aroma just might serve as an incentive to the people of the town.

Or one of them, at any rate.

The stranger's presence was not general knowledge. He had searched the faces of his sidewalk audience for hints of recognition as he spun his fabricated story, seeking a response and finding none. No hint of shock or guilt, no trace of lingering anxiety. Rivera now considered two alternatives: the people he had spoken with, thus far, knew nothing of the gringo's presence in their town; or else one of them was a great deal stronger than he looked.

Or she. A woman might be tempted by a wounded warrior, taking him to heart and standing firm against a threat to his well-being. Despite Rivera's heritage, his personal commitment to machismo, he did not regard the female as a weaker sex. They suffered much in life, not least in childbirth, and their lust for vengeance could be awesome. If a woman had the stranger in her clutches, and especially if she was unmarried, then Rivera's task would be that much more difficult. She would not give the gringo up as readily as, say, a man with a wife and children to protect.

But he would let them have their hour, keep his fingers crossed and hope that someone, anyone, would point at his neighbor, whisper in Rivera's ear. A fearful man will sell his neighbor, and his neighbor's children, to survive. With three dead men — their friends — already lying in the street, the townspeople knew that he was serious, that it was not a game. They would think twice before they tried to call his bluff.

His chief lieutenants sat in silence, sipping coffee, killing time, and waiting for their orders. Esteban had done a decent job of rounding up assorted weapons from the hardware shop, reducing chances for a vigilante ambush on the street, and he had briefed Rivera on the incident involving Jorge and Ismael with the merchant's daughter. The gunners would be dealt with later, when Rivera had the time to teach them discipline, but at the moment he was thinking of the girl. Allowing her to live had been a judgment call, with which Rivera did not totally agree, but he could understand Esteban's reasoning. The girl would certainly be found. Her injuries, the liquidation of her parents, would spread further terror among the locals, prompting them to take whatever steps might be required to save themselves. Potential problems lay within their choice of methods for survival. While the rational recourse would be delivery of the wounded stranger to Rivera, some among them might decide to fight. It was a risky game, this playing with men's minds, and he would have to wait to see the outcome first, assessing methods with the benefit of hindsight prior to making any judgment on Rodriguez.