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sprawling complex of adobe with a red tile roof and an elegant arch over the main gate. Every inch of the masonry was covered with plaster as white and even as fallen snow. The hacienda was shaded by broadleaf trees that spoke of constant watering and extensive, shriveled flowerbeds that did not.
    Perez was an irrational man, and his cultivation efforts reflected his mental state.
    When Pauleen rode under the arch into a large flagstone courtyard he realized that the hacienda was much older than it first appeared. Its pillared verandas and balconies suggested its original builder had been a Spanish hidalgo who’d been in the grave for at least a hundred years.
    While Perez’s bandits lounged outside a timber barracks block, peons in white cotton shirts and straw sombreros rushed to take the horses, and when the word got around that Sandoval was dead, the courtyard filled with crying, wailing women.
    A small chapel lay at a distance from the house and the women quickly carried the body there.
    Perez didn’t spare the sad procession a glance as he ushered Pauleen inside.
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    The interior of the house was shady and cool. In the Spanish colonial style, it had substantial furniture and exposed wood beam ceilings. But native craftsmen had made the tables, chairs, and chests from walnut, cedar, cypress, and mesquite, lighter woods than the original heavy oak and mahogany.
    Perez untied his sunbonnet, threw it onto a chair, and indicated that Pauleen should sit in another.
    The gunman chose a massive, leather-upholstered chair by the cold fireplace, and Perez sat opposite him.
    The bandit clapped his hands and within seconds a young woman stepped into the room.
    â€œWine,” Perez said.
    The woman poured wine into a pair of fine silver goblets. She served Perez and then Pauleen.
    â€œNow go,” the bandit said. Then, grinning, “Come to me tonight, Consuela.”
    The woman nodded, unsmiling, and said nothing.
    She left the room on silent feet and Perez said, “Why did Hacker send you and not come himself?”
    â€œI’m here because Hacker needs to win,” Pauleen said. “I’m the man who ensures that he does.”
    â€œAn answer of sorts,” Perez said. “Where are your guns?”
    â€œI had no need for them, Sancho,” Pauleen said. “You are a great and powerful man and under the roof of your hacienda I am safe from all harm.”
    The flattery worked. Perez bowed his head and said, “This is true. All are welcome here and are protected while they are my guests.”
    Because of the summer heat, the bandit wore only a frilled white shirt open to the waist, and woolen pants tucked into fine English riding boots. His gun belt was buckled over the vaquero’s traditional red sash.
    â€œThe wine is not to your taste, Mickey?” Perez said, his obsidian eyes glinting.
    â€œIt is an excellent vintage,” Pauleen said. He lifted the goblet, put it to his closed lips, and pretended to drink.
    â€œTell me about Hacker’s proposition,” Perez said.
    â€œA dollar for every peon you can drive across the Rio Grande,” Pauleen said. “It’s as simple as that, Sancho.”
    Perez was surprised. “What peon is worth an American dollar?”
    â€œMan, woman, or child, that is their worth to Hacker.”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œAs many as you can round up. Hacker mentioned a figure of a thousand and more if you can get them.”
    â€œThat is all I have to do? Herd peons across the river like cattle?”
    â€œYes, but to a certain place in the river, the town of Last Chance.”
    â€œHow will I feed and water so many on the drive?”
    â€œBetter they cross the border hungry and thirsty. The fields and orchards around Last Chance will look like the Garden of Eden to them.”
    â€œHa! The Spanish monks taught me about the garden when I was a boy,” Perez said. “The people were cast out