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and saddles. Dust lifted from the hooves of the oncoming horses and laced away in the unceasing desert wind, and suddenly Pauleen’s mouth was dry.
    Sancho Perez was insane, and that made him an unpredictable and dangerous hombre.
    The riders spread out, but the foremost man rested the butt of his rifle on his thigh and came on at a walk. Judging by his massive girth, he was Perez.
    Pauleen felt a surge of relief.
    It seemed that the bandit had decided to talk first and shoot later.
    Mickey Pauleen drew rein and waited. His sober clothes were covered in a thick layer of dust, and his red-veined eyes burned in the harsh light.
    Perez stopped when he was five yards from Pauleen and his outriders came back and flanked him, their broad, peasant faces set and hard, revealing nothing.
    The bandit chief grinned and revealed that his two front teeth were set with diamonds.
    â€œMickey Pauleen, my good fren’,” he said. His black eyes flicked to the gunman’s horse. “I see you are prospering since Piedgras Negras.”
    It was difficult for Pauleen to keep a straight face while talking to a mustachioed, stubble-chinned man who wore an Amish woman’s white bonnet instead of a sombrero, but he managed it.
    â€œThat was not a good fight, Sancho,” he said. “We found no army payroll, only rurales.”
    â€œ Sí , that is so,” Perez said. “The last I saw of you, you were running across the desert as though the devil himself was after you.”
    â€œAnd you were galloping south on my horse,” Pauleen said.
    The bandit laughed, a loud, rollicking bellow that shook his great belly. “Good times, Mickey, good times,” he said.
    â€œFor you, Sancho, not for me.”
    Perez’s face fell. “Ah, now Sancho is ver’ sad that you did not enjoy Piedgras Negras.”
    He turned to his men, first one and then the other. “Is Sancho not sad?” he said.
    Both Mexicans nodded their agreement and Perez sighed.
    â€œAnd I am sadder still, because I am a thief and I have to take your fine horse and set you on foot again.”
    But before Pauleen could say anything, Perez’s face brightened.
    â€œWait, I have a plan, and then I will not be so sad,” he said.
    He turned to the man on his left. “Sandoval, give my friend Mickey your horse.”
    The young man shook his head.
    â€œThis horse is mine, patrón . I will not part with him.”
    Perez drew his Colt and shot the man.
    The young bandit’s swarthy face registered a moment of surprise before he tumbled out of the saddle and hit the ground.
    â€œSee, Mickey, my fren’, now you can have his horse and I will take yours,” he said. He spread his hands and smiled. “I have solved the problem.”
    â€œ Viva Perez! ” the surviving bandits yelled, grinning.
    Pauleen knew he had to talk fast, and the sight of the dead man on the ground loosened his tongue.
    â€œSancho, if you accept my proposition you can buy all the blooded horses you want,” he said.
    Perez scowled. “Proposition? What is this proposition? Do you try to bargain with Sancho?”
    â€œIt’s from Abe Hacker,” Pauleen said.
    As he knew it would, the name made a difference.
    â€œAh, Señor Hacker is a ver’ rich man. We have done business before.”
    â€œAnd you can do business again,” Pauleen said.
    Perez glanced at the sky, the same shade of faded blue as a washed-out pair of dungarees, and said, “We will talk at my hacienda.”
    He turned to the man at his side.
    â€œClemente, put poor Sandoval on his horse, and we will give him to his woman to bury,” he said. “I am ver’ sorry he died with disrespect on his lips. It makes Sancho so sad.”
    He grinned at Pauleen. “Now, my friend, we will go and drink some wine and talk business.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    When Sancho Perez called his place a hacienda, he had not exaggerated.
    It was a