“Sure I will. Because nobody’s going to know about it except you and me, and you ain’t going to talk up.”

“Why won’t I?”

“Because I just unloaded your gun, Captain, and I got mine pointed at you, and if you hear a loud noise it will be you dying.”

“They’ll know, Boag. They’ll shoot you full of holes.”

“Not as long as I stick close to you like a burr. Captain they need you so bad they can taste it. You’re a first-class soldier and they ain’t got another one like you in all of Sonora. They can’t afford to open up shooting if you could get hit. So it ain’t much risk for either of us so long as you play by my rules. It ain’t going to hurt you, all you’ll lose is a little sleep.”

“Boag if you knew how much sleep was worth to me right now.…”

“Sure enough. Well now you can pucker up your asshole and walk out of here right in front of me. I ain’t gon show my gun but it’ll be right handy if I need it. All you got to do is tell your boys to rustle up that order of mine. Including the Gatling gun.”

Captain McQuade tipped his head just a little bit to one side. He watched Boag and didn’t say anything. It was as if he was waiting to wake up from a tedious dream. Out on the picket line Boag could hear the light thud of hoof, the swish of tail.

“Come on now Boag, you’re not going to shoot me.”

“Captain I’ll shoot your ears off one at a time and then I’ll go for your kneecaps. You won’t be able to ride, let alone walk. You try me.”

“What the hell. I thought you were a friend of mine.”

“Another time I’ll apologize for this, Captain.”

Captain McQuade went toward the tent flap. Boag said, “Kindly don’t tell me I won’t get away with it.”

“You don’t mind if I think it, do you?” Captain McQuade’s face was composed into lines indicative of mild scorn but it seemed directed at himself as much as at Boag. He batted the tent flap back and Boag went outside with him.

The wind ruffled the blue lining of Captain McQuade’s cape. Boag stood close behind him and watched the troops load the wagon, grunting under the weight of the powderkegs and the dismounted Gatling gun. Gnats and flies swarmed around a dribble of horse dung near Boag’s feet.

A Mexican brought Boag’s horse along and Boag told him to tie it to the tailboard of the wagon.

Boag said, “You drive, Captain.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Look, I’ll turn you loose, it’ll be a couple hours’ walk back here. Ain’t no big thing.”

“Damn it Boag, I need some sleep. If I don’t get some sleep I swear I’m going to perish,”

“We get out of camp here, I’ll drive the wagon. You can sleep. That sound all right?”

Captain McQuade hauled himself up onto the high seat and Boag settled beside him. “I hope they don’t try to follow me,” Boag said. “They ain’t good enough.”

Captain McQuade said to a lieutenant, “I’m doing a reconnoitre with the scout here. I’ll be back sometime tonight. Keep this camp secure and tell them not to shoot my ass off when I get back, all right?”

Captain McQuade lifted the reins and made noises at the horse and Boag put one hand on the edge of the seat to keep from being pitched off. The wagon bucked out of camp and Boag said, “Upstream a ways and then we’ll turn east up the mountains.”

When the fires of the camp fell away behind them Boag took the reins and Captain McQuade leaned forward with his elbows braced on his splayed knees. His head hung down and swayed. By God he really was asleep.

Boag did his best to avoid the big bumps. He rode the buckboard up into the mountains and somewhere around midnight he stopped the wagon and climbed down, went back to his horse behind the tailboard and got the hunk of gold out of the saddlebag. Then he shook Captain McQuade by the shoulder. “This where you get off.”

Captain McQuade gave him a drunken look. “Uh?”

“Come on, Captain.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“You just head west and keep going downhill, you’ll hit the river down there. Turn left, go downstream you’ll walk right into your camp. Take you two-three hours from here.”

Captain McQuade climbed down; Boag gave him a hand. “Here, stick this in your pocket.”

“What’s—?”

“I said I’d pay you for the stuff.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ll get the Gatling gun back to you if I can.”

“This honest-to-God gold?”

“Yes sir. You don’t want to spend it all in one saloon.”

“Right now I could just about do that.”

“Captain you better wake up. You don’t want some bandit taking that hunk of gold away from you. And don’t forget to load up that gun I emptied.” Boag climbed onto the seat and settled the reins among his fingers. “Good luck in your war, Captain.”

Captain McQuade just glared at him and Boag drove the wagon on up the slope.

But after a little while when he looked back he saw Captain McQuade raising an arm to wave. “Good luck in yours too, Boag.”

Morning was a bad time. You woke innocent and then you remembered last night. That had been a bad trick to play on a friend.

And remembering last night you superimposed it on today: you remembered how you had invited getting all shot to pieces by a regiment and you knew the good fortune of the escape might not be granted you again today.

Boag checked out the load on the wagon and tied his saddle horse to the tailboard again and headed the buckboard for the Santa Cruz district.

Last night he had spent a couple of hours wiping out his sign so that if Captain McQuade took a notion to track him he wouldn’t catch up too fast. Boag was hoping Captain McQuade would come to the Santa Cruz to find out how Boag’s war was going. But he didn’t want Captain McQuade’s army showing up before the fight started. Anyhow it was a distant hope at best; he couldn’t count on Captain McQuade coming and even if he did come it didn’t mean he’d help out.

It was about seventy miles up the ridgebacks of the Sierra Madre to the Santa Cruz district and it took Boag all day and half the night to get there, and that was pushing hard; the wagon horse was all used up by the time he stopped in the middle of the night. He got on his saddle horse and rode around the town of Coronado, following Jackson’s directions, and at about two in the morning he found the wagon road that had to head up to the old mine that Mr. Pickett had turned into his fortress.

He stopped along the creek bank and dipped a canteen of water out of the stream; he set it down on the ground long enough for the floating debris to settle to the bottom before he drank out of it. He looked at the night sky; he didn’t see many clouds but he could smell a change in weather coming and he tried to work out ways to make use of it.

The ruts of the old road had once been worn right down to bedrock but years of disuse had rilled them in here and there with enough topsoil to grow weeds. In places the weeds were belly high on Boag’s horse. But they were limp because they’d been crushed down lately by the passage of wagon-wheels and they hadn’t sprung back fully. Heavy wagons, Boag judged. Possibly Mr. Pickett’s big vault, coming up the road in sections.

It was good country up here, a lot of timber and meadows. But when Boag reached the edge of the forest and looked up the road he could see why Mr. Pickett had chosen the spot. It was a mesa, a tabletop mountain with a steep cut running up into it for the road—possibly it was a natural cut because it would have taken a prodigious amount of blasting to man-make it. From the parapet on top of the mountain the sentries would have a clear command of almost a mile of cliffs and open flats. You couldn’t get anywhere near that mountain without being spotted; not on this front approach at least.

Boag turned the horse to the right and began to ride a full circle around Mr. Pickett’s mountain.