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toward a blue sky, climbing through boulders and brush, and beyond them, almost blocked out by the trees, rose towering spires of granite.
    The Dragoon Mountains, Reilly guessed. No, it wasn’t a guess. He knew. More than a decade ago, the Dragoons had been the stronghold of the great Apache Cochise, and he could see why an Apache, or a man like Jim Pardo, would choose this spot as his hideout. It had to be damned near impregnable, with plenty of shade, and, more important, water. He forced himself to the clear spring in the boulders, heard the rhythmic dripping of the water, squatted with cupped hands, and drank.
    It hurt to pull himself up, but he managed, leaned back against the hard rock, and looked at the campfire.
    An older woman, thin but mean, worked on a rifle. Reilly blinked. His Evans! She spit into the fire, not giving Reilly a moment’s thought. That would be Ruby Pardo, Jim’s mother. He had read one account, in a newspaper, or maybe it had been in a dime novel, that said Ruby Pardo tied the scalps of the men she had killed on her pants legs, but she didn’t wear pants. She wore a filthy riding skirt that maybe once had been a brilliant red, and, anyway, he didn’t see any scalps.
    Away from the fire, a man stood in front of a Sibley tent, half of his face lathered, an ivory-handled razor in his left hand. Shirtless, with black pants, and still wearing a gun while he shaved. Wade Chaucer, Reilly guessed.
    The other men’s names he didn’t recollect, but he wouldn’t forget their faces. A sorry-looking bunch, who sat around the fire, trying to focus on the poker game they were playing, but staring at him. One tossed his cards on the deadwood, unsheathed a giant Bowie knife, and began running the blade against a whetstone. He seemed older than the rest.
    Reilly remembered the dark-haired woman who smelled of mescal. He didn’t see her, but there were other tents, a cabin halfway built, two lean-tos, and a corral. This had been a camp for quite a while. He went back to the fire. Three men. Plus the man shaving. And Pardo, wherever he was. But there had to be more. Jim Pardo would have at least one man on sentry duty.
    When his head started swimming, he decided he’d better head back to his bedroll, before somebody had to carry him there.
    Â 
    For supper, the girl brought in a plate of beans, two burned tortillas, and a cup of coffee. Reilly was sitting up, rubbing his wrists, watching the men and women at the fire. The graybeard was gone, but a swarthy gent had replaced him. Likely trading off guard duty.
    â€œWhere’s Pardo?” he asked, taking the plate from the girl’s hand.
    â€œI ain’t his keeper,” she said, kneeling.
    â€œSomebody’s going to slap that smart mouth of yours shut,” Reilly said. “And it might be me.”
    Handing him the coffee, she eyed him with a measure of respect.
    â€œHe rode off this morning.”
    â€œHow many men does he have?”
    â€œFive. That’s all I seen. But I hear them talk that one of them got killed when they wrecked the train, and his brother took him home to get planted. I don’t know when he’ll come back.”
    â€œThey wrecked a train?”
    â€œYeah. Killed my stepfather. Don’t give me that look. He was a louse.”
    Reilly tested the coffee. It was terrible, but it was coffee. “You best get back, look after your mother. They don’t want us talking much.”
    â€œBack in the desert, you said you were a real lawman,” she said softly.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWhat you plan on doing?”
    He didn’t really have an answer. “Try to keep you, your mother, and me alive,” he said as she walked away. A thought struck him, and he called out, “Blanche?”
    She turned.
    â€œWhere’s my badge?” he whispered.
    Her fingers began dribbling the pocket of her pants.
    â€œBury it,” he said.

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