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hill.
    “What’s the matter with you, eh, dummy?” he called over his shoulder in Japanese. “You’re in a big hurry to die, is that it? Stupid beast! You’d like to see me walk through this godforsaken country, wouldn’t you?”
    Tora, for his part, was too accustomed to these outbursts to be concerned. He said nothing.
    Cresting the hill, Gonji halted them and peered below. The shouts of the cavalry could still be heard, but he saw nothing. The chase had seemingly been abandoned.
    Comforted, Gonji took several deep breaths to settle himself and clear his head. Then he wiped the grime from his face with a kimono sleeve, seated his swords very properly in his thick sash, stretched his frame to the six feet he could almost reach in well-soled sandals, and strode up to the Spaniard.
    He looked just about as fit for inspection as any unshaven, tangle-maned samurai with a threadbare kimono could look.
    Navárez didn’t look up from the task of wrapping his injured leg as Gonji stepped near and bowed formally.
    “I’m Gonji Sabatake, and you—”
    At that moment two riders galloped toward them out of the pine-shroud. Gonji seized the Sagami’s hilt but relaxed almost immediately. The lead rider yanked to a halt and grinned a toothy grin at Navárez, his large dark eyes flicking from the Spaniard to Gonji. He held a horse in tether.
    Spanish pirates, Gonji thought.
    A glance at these two plumbed up vivid memories of the seafaring rogues of the Spanish Main. Both Navárez and the first rider were bedecked in the florid tastelessness of their decadent profession, from their lurid bandannas and opulent gold earrings down to their magnificent leather riding boots—wrenched, no doubt, from the refined feet of murdered gentry.
    But what in the name of the Seven Devils were they doing so far from home? so deeply landlocked? and pitted against Holy Mother Church, with whom, in these territories, they’d best be sided if they ran afoul of Magyars or Turks?
    The second rider pulled even with the flashy Spaniard and introduced further confusion. For here was a tall gaunt Aryan bandit whose ragged-brimmed slouch hat could scarcely conceal his patently fair features; the classic portrait of a northern backroad highwayman, his presence was as incongruous among these freebooters as a wolf would be among sharks.
    Looking to Navárez, Gonji noted the dark shadow that etched the Spaniard’s features. Fine needles of tension prickled the air, and the second pirate’s grin faded. Without a greeting he wheeled abruptly and gestured to the north, and the two new arrivals galloped off the way they had come, leaving the spare horse behind.
    “Julio-o-o-ooo!”
    Navárez’ cry went unanswered, an ugly grimace settling over his battle-scarred face. His fist clawed at his wide leather belt, found empty air where once had hung his cutlass, lost in the valley conflict. He nodded gravely, a nod that marked some inner resolve.
    Gonji cleared his throat, then spoke again.
    “I say, amigo , I’m Gonji Sabatake, and I think we—”
    “Agua,” the Spaniard grunted. “I see you have some.” He snatched the water skin from Gonji’s saddle and tipped his head back to slosh the liquid down his throat. Then he freely laved his face until his chin dripped like the jaws of a surfacing sea beast.
    “Agua,” Gonji muttered low. “Help yourself.” He eased the water skin away from him and, before taking a pull, said, “You can thank me later.”
    The Spaniard stared at him a moment and at last broke into a wide grin, chuckled softly, and then barked out a long throaty laugh that lasted until the burning pain of the leg wound again caught up with him. He massaged the area around the gunshot. Then he motioned to Gonji to board Tora and himself crawled onto the other horse, a groan accompanying the effort.
    They looked back down the hill to where disembodied shouts and hoofbeats and sporadic gunfire could be heard in the distance.
    “Vamos,”