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by holy angels with fiery swords.”
    â€œThe peons will not be cast out. They’re welcome to stay and work for wages,” Pauleen said.
    Perez said, “A bowl of beans and a couple of pesos a day. That’s all a peon needs, or asks.”
    â€œCan you round up the number Hacker needs?”
    â€œIn a normal year, it would be impossible. But the drought drives the peons north. Some have already set their eyes on crossing the Rio Grande, I think.”
    â€œBy the fourth of July, huh?”
    â€œThis I will do, if I can keep them alive that long. But my fee is three dollars a head.”
    â€œYou’re a robber, Sancho,” Pauleen said without rancor.
    â€œ Sí , that is my profession,” Perez said. “And I am ver’ good at it.”
    â€œThen three dollars it is. Bring more than a thousand and Hacker will pay a bonus.”
    Perez nodded. “He is a fine man.” He rose to his feet, leaned into the fireplace, and grabbed a handful of fine wood ash from the grate that he scattered on his head. His black hair now streaked with gray, Perez said, “Come with me to the chapel. We will mourn for poor Sandoval who now lies so stiff and cold.”
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    When they were still twenty yards from the chapel, Perez screamed his grief, then moaned and beat his chest with a fist as he approached the door.
    â€œEeeiii, poor Sandoval,” he wailed. “What have I done to you?”
    Inside, thick yellow candles guttering in wrought-iron brackets on the walls relieved the dimness of the chapel.
    Sandoval’s body, as gray and still as marble, had been washed by the women and lay naked on a bier in front of the altar. The air was thick with candle smoke and the musky tang of ancient incense.
    Gray ashes mingled with the sweat on his forehead and cheeks, Perez shrieked and threw himself on the dead man. “Sandoval, forgive your Sancho,” he howled. “Aaahhh... I am surely damned. How can God forgive me such a sin?”
    Pauleen sat in a pew and listened to the bandit’s lamentation, a smile tugging at his lips. The man was either acting or insane. No, he was an insane actor.
    Who better than a madman to carry out his part of Hacker’s mad plan to bring the Plagues of Egypt to Last Chance and thus destroy the very thing he lusted to own?
    Amid the cries of Perez and the sobs of women, Pauleen came to the realization that Hacker and Perez were both loco, but in different ways.
    Sancho Perez was a roaring, unbuttoned buffoon, a born criminal who could kill a man without thought and regret it a moment later.
    Abe Hacker was cooler, smarter, more calculating... and just as deadly.
    Both made treacherous friends and deadly enemies.
    Pauleen made his mind up right there and then.
    Once the locusts crossed the river, he’d take his money and his woman and ride. Maybe up Wyoming way where a gun for hire was always welcome.
    Pauleen rose and stepped to the bier, where Perez still wept and wailed.
    He tapped the bandit on the shoulder, then whispered into his ear, “July fourth.”
    Perez dashed away tears and nodded.
    As Pauleen turned to walk away, his eyes clashed with a young woman’s who stood by the bier. Her left cheek bore the deep scar of a knife wound, but her beautiful black eyes glittered as she stared at him with stark, vicious hatred.
    Pauleen, the fastest and most dangerous man with a gun on the frontier, shivered—as though a goose had just flown over his grave.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Dave Randall had had it up to here with hiding out in the brush.
    It was time to head back into Last Chance and let Hacker smooth things over, use that glib tongue of his to convince the town that Randall’s part in the attack on the Ranger had been a misunderstanding.
    Jess Gable was dead. Randall was pretty sure of that.
    Well then, here’s what he’d say: “See, Gable tried to murder the Ranger in his bed and I made a brave