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worse.”
    Obregon’s features contorted with rage. Unable to contain his anger, he loosed a stream of epithets and charged down the center aisle, sawing the air with his curved steel blade. Behind him, the patrol advanced in
a pack, muskets primed and ready, bayonets to the fore, each soldier convinced Wallace was cornered and helpless. That was their first mistake … and their last.
    â€œHeeyahh!” A sombrero slapped across horseflesh. A pair of horses charged down the center aisle, scattering the soldiers. A pair of muskets belched smoke and flame and shot holes through the back wall of the stable. In the glare of the muzzle blasts Obregon glimpsed a great and terrible silhouette sweeping past him. He lunged forward with his saber. Wallace thrust a leg out and tripped the man, then hammered him across the back of the neck with a powerful forearm that sent the sergeant sprawling into a stall. Obregon hit hard; his pistol discharged, setting fire to the straw.
    â€œBastard!” one of the men shouted out, attacking with his bayonet. Shadows flew out to attack him. He skewered a bag of oats, a bridle, another bag of oats. A wooden bucket of slops materialized out of thin air and crashed over his head. Wallace spun the man about and planted a foot in the soldier’s backside and propelled him toward his companions. Blinded, the soldier ran headlong into a post, splintering the bucket and knocking himself unconscious.
    Emilio and his compadre glimpsed movement and fired simultaneously. “Got him!”
    But Emilio’s elation vanished as one of their own, framed in the glare of the muzzle blasts, stumbled forward, his hands outstretched, his expression “Why?” as he collapsed against a stall gate, then crumbled to his knees and curled over on his belly.
    Emilio held his ground, but his compadre had lost his taste for battle. The soldier threw his musket aside and dashed to safety. Emilio pointed the bayonet at Wallace’s belly as the big man loomed out of the dark. Sergeant Obregon struggled to his feet and, wielding his saber, charged the norte americano from behind. Juan
Diego’s orders were forgotten now. This was personal.
    Knives appeared in Wallace’s hands, the dirk in his left hand, the short sword in his right. How many times had Flambeau tested him? Every day, rain or shine, come wind or high water, Mad Jack had prepared him for this moment.
    Emilio lowered the bayonet and charged. Wallace, despite his size, proved to be an elusive target. He parried with his right, twisted about, ducked as Emilio tried to club him with the butt of his musket, plunged the dirk into the soldier’s thigh, then knocked him senseless with the flat of his broad blade. Wallace heard the saber behind him as it sliced through the air. He spun on his heels.
    Steel crashed against steel. The saber clanged against the short sword. Wallace stepped inside the sergeant’s guard, opened a gash along the sergeant’s cheek, sliced him down the length of one shoulder, and plowed a furrow in Obregon’s flesh deep enough to hurt like hell but not enough to kill him. The sergeant was no match for the knife-fighter. He stumbled over the bodies of his fallen command, toppled backward, and crashed through the side of a stall. Howling like a wounded bear, he crawled hand over foot toward the front door. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Wallace advancing on him. The gringo’s red hair, in wild disarray, looked like flames beneath the moon’s baleful stare; the blades in his hands flickered with cold fire as he twirled them in his grasp.
    â€œEl Destripedor Rojo! He is here!” the sergeant moaned, crawling into the yard, trying to sound an alarm. The last of his patrol, the one frightened soul who had fled the barn, had no intention of confronting the Red Ripper. He clutched the holy medal he wore about his throat and vanished around the corner of the hotel.
    â€œAhorre qui