“About two hours. I gather that won’t help you.”

“Looking to find three men rode in here maybe four days ago, probably rode right out again.”

“Well you can ask the storekeeper here. These three men some kind of special friends of yours?”

“I guess not,” Boag said.

Captain McQuade took a snap-lid timepiece out of his pocket and opened it and raised one eyebrow, and put the watch away. Boag said, “You got to be someplace?”

“There’s time. Got a bit of a ride ahead of us.” Captain McQuade glanced at the row of fierce Mexicans and shook his head and said under his breath, “Been a long time since I closed both eyes, Boag. You wouldn’t be looking for a job, would you?”

“Doin’ what?”

“Same kind of thing you used to do before the both of us got cans tied to our tails. Only this time you’d be my topkick instead of Captain Gatewood’s.”

Boag said, very dry, “Which side, Captain?”

“Rebels.”

“Ruiz?”

“That’s right.”

“You hiring out mercenary, Captain?”

“What else is a soldier to do?”

“I don’t know, Captain. I ain’t sure I understand why you ain’t still in the Army. I mean I always thought they couldn’t fire officers.”

“They can put them on shelves someplace where they can’t do a damn thing for amusement. They wanted to post me to some Godforsaken Indian agency in Texas with a detail of four enlisted men. I don’t know a worse way to rot, Boag. I resigned and came here seeking adventure and usefulness and I imagine I’ve found them. But I can’t say I’m happy with the tools I have to work with. I’d be a much happier man if I had a man at my back I knew I could trust. These gentlemen you see here would slit your throat for a peso.”

Boag kept his hat on while he ate, standing up at the bar. “So now you’re a captain in Ruiz’s rebel army.”

“Actually I’m a coronel.” The doleful eyes beamed.

“Well congratulations, Captain.”

“How about it—Sergeant-Major?”

“I guess not, Captain, I got a few fish to fry. But thank you.”

“Pays a good wage, Boag. You draw down a hundred pesos every month and that’s in gold coin, and on top of that you can keep anything you loot.”

“Well I’m obliged but no.”

“What are you so bent out of shape about? Somebody step on your sore corn?”

“I guess you could say that. You know anything about Mr. Jed Pickett, Captain?”

“I’ve heard he used to scalp-hunt around here. Haven’t heard anything about him recently. What would you be having to do with the likes of him?”

“Just looking to find the man, that’s all. He owes me something.”

“I’d forget it, Boag, Jed Pickett’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. You go looking to get him to settle a debt and you’re just likely to spend the rest of your life all shot to pieces.”

“Well chicken today, feathers tomorrow. I’d dearly like to catch up with Mr. Pickett.”

“They’ll take you apart and throw the pieces in the Gulf of California. Jed Pickett travels with a retinue, Boag. Fifteen or twenty men and the one that wouldn’t shoot you for the fun of it’s as rare as a pair of clean socks around an enlisted men’s barracks. Why don’t you just forget this debt of Pickett’s?”

“I guess I just ain’t gaited that way.”

“Boag, I must admit there have been times I suspected you had nothing but pork fat between your ears. This is one of those times. I recall you always did think with your fists, it got you busted three or four times and this time it’s likely to get you killed. Why the hell don’t you give it up and join up with me? We can have a hell of a fine time trying to kick over the pail.”

Boag mopped up the last of the bean gravy with a crust of heavy bread. “Coffee, Captain?”

“Uh-huh.”

Boag said to the barkeep, “Draw two,” and turned his back to the bar to hook his elbows over it. “Captain, Mr. Jed Pickett must have somebody around Sonora he deals with when he’s got something to sell. You wouldn’t have no notions about that, would you?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Well Mr. Pickett’s got something that belongs to me and I expect he aims to sell it somewhere. Now how would you tote that?”

“Well I think you’re a damned fool to pursue this, Boag, that’s the way I tote it. But there’s a man named Almada down the Rio Conceptión a few miles the other side of Caborca, owns a big ranch and a hacienda, and a good many of our rebel bandits go there to trade loot. You might try Almada.”

“Much oblige.”

“I’ve got to be moving,” Captain McQuade said after he looked at his pocket watch. “We’ve got a train to meet. If you finish what you’re doing alive, come over to Caborca and ask for Hector Veragua. He can always tell you how to get in touch with me. Any time you want that job.”

“Thank you Captain.”

“Well I’ve got to gather my children and be on my way. Why don’t you buy yourself another drink? You may as well, while your money’s still some good to you.” Captain McQuade shook his head and strode to the door. “Vamanos, muchachos,” he said in a ringing cavalryman’s voice, and banged out followed by his hulking warriors.

Boag heard the horses mill around while their riders got mounted, and then there was the call of Captain McQuade’s command-voice and the hoofs drummed away until distance absorbed the sound.

The bartender said, “You wish something more, Señor?”

“Nada, grácias.” Boag finished his coffee and settled the tab and went outside. The night was sharp with chill. He thought about bedding down for the night but the juices were running in him. He went back inside; the bartender was going around the room blowing out the lamps. Boag said, “Hey amigo, how do I get to Caborca?”

“Through the pass to the south and down the mountain until you find the river. That is the Rio de la Conceptión. You go downstream and you will come to a town with many tall palm trees.”

He heard the barkeep latch the door behind him. He was tired and his bad leg was bothering him a little. Ought to sleep it out, but the juices were still pumping and he cinched up the sorrel and rode out toward the pass.

He heard gunfire, a lot of it. From a hilltop that commanded several thousand acres of desert flats he had a long-distance view of people flitting from rock to rock, powder smoke drifting in tufts, a long line of uniformed troops lying along the parapet of a low bluff shooting down into the flitting figures, riderless horses prancing nervously. Evidently a troop of federals had ambushed a rebel column.

Boag didn’t hang around to see how it turned out. The federals were setting up a hand-crank Gatling gun on its wheeled cart and when he rode back behind the hill he heard the thing begin to stutter viciously. Not much chance for the rebels there.

Long rays of morning sun slanted across the hills. The racket of battle receded behind Boag; once, a mile or more to the north of him and running parallel with Boag’s course, a horseman riding low to the withers raced through the cuts and gullies and finally disappeared into the ridged badlands—a rebel messenger dispatched for help, Boag judged. It wasn’t going to do them any good, there wasn’t time to bring reinforcements. He gave that outfit back there half an hour to get cut to pieces by the Gatling gun. There wasn’t enough cover in the ambush-ground the federals had picked; the federals had set it up with first-class tactical talent.

The old woman back on the Colorado had been right; the regular troops would win this one, there wouldn’t be any overthrow of the provincial government. Governor Pesquiera not only had the troops and the money; it was clear he also had the military brains. Boag wondered what kind of suicidal lunacy had persuaded Captain Shelby McQuade to join up with the losing side. Captain McQuade had always been reckless but he’d seldom been stupid. But now he wanted to kick over the pail and he didn’t seem to realize the pail was too full; he wasn’t going to kick it over, he was going to stub his toe against it.