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hurried into his saddle and gave his horse a jerk forward, having to plant his hand down on his bowler hat to keep from losing it. Dawson smiled to himself and followed close behind, keeping an eye on him. Along the dry creekbed the old Mexican goatherders lifted their hands in farewell, watching the three horses file past them.
    Shaw led the way on the dirt trail most of the afternoon. Caldwell kept his promise and didn’t speak another word until after they had reached the end of the flatlands and began winding their way up and down across one low rise after another toward a string of low hills that stood purple and gray in the failing evening light. When Shaw stopped the bigbuckskin at the crest of a rise and halted Dawson and Caldwell with a raised hand, the undertaker craned his neck and stared in the same direction as Shaw as he asked Dawson in a nervous whisper, “Why are we stopped here? What’s wrong? Are there Comancheros?”
    But Shaw heard him and answered for Dawson, “I don’t know if they’re Comancheros or not…but there’s a wagon and it’s not moving. I’ve been getting a little better look at them each time we top a rise.”
    Dawson stood in his stirrups and gazed out through the evening shadows. “We could circle wide of it…but if somebody has slipped a wheel, I’d hate to leave them stranded out here with ‘cheros on the loose.”
    â€œWe’ll ride in on them,” said Shaw, raising his rifle from his scabbard, checking it, and laying it across his lap. “Be ready in case it’s a trap.”
    â€œA trap?” Caldwell said, sounding shaky, moving his horse closer to Cray Dawson. “Should you give me a gun or something?”
    â€œThought you couldn’t shoot,” said Dawson, looking pointedly at him.
    â€œI can’t,” Caldwell replied, “but if you’ll set it up for me I can keep pulling the trigger until it stops firing.”
    â€œJesus,” said Dawson, “just stick close to me for now. When we get past this, maybe I’ll show you some pointers on shooting.”
    â€œThanks,” said Caldwell, his face ashen with fear. “I believe it’s time I seriously learn to defend myself.”
    Dawson and Caldwell followed Lawrence Shawuntil even in the closing dusk they could see the old Studebaker canvas-top wagon sitting with a rear wheel resting on a short pile of flat rocks. A few feet away stood four mules grazing on sparse clumps of grass.
    At the rear of the wagon, a tall woman with long auburn hair saw the three riders coming across the rolling land and she said to the bald-headed man who worked feverishly on the broken wheel, “Dillard, someone’s coming!” Then she walked around the side of the wagon, picked up the double-barreled shotgun, and walked briskly back and held it out to the man as he hurriedly wiped axle grease from his hands onto a dirty rag.
    â€œIf I ever get the hell out of this damn mess, I’ll never leave the town limits again. I ought to have my ass kicked for ever coming along.”
    â€œHere, take this gun and try to act like a man,” she said. “You were pretty keen on coming along when all you thought you had to help me do was claim that tavern and pick up any money the old man left me. Stop bellyaching!” She forced the shotgun into his hand, shoving him back a step. “If it’s Comancheros, we’re both going to die. Let’s try to do so with some dignity.”
    â€œDignity, my ass,” Dillard Frome growled, checking the shotgun and raising it to his shoulder. “If they’re not Comancheros, don’t forget, we’re Dillard and Della Frome, man and wife.” He looked her up and down with contempt. “God forbid…” he added under his breath.
    â€œDon’t worry, Dillard; I know that little ‘we’re married’ routine by heart.” Della reached up