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Superstitions. Who can you recommend?”
     
    “Try some of the cantinas in south Phoenix,” said Peterson. “Ask for Yavapai and Sanchez. They know most of the mountains in southern Arizona, from the Superstitions to the Maricopas.”
     
    Feeling a little guilty, Peterson watched the trio depart. He had told them the truth—most of it, anyway. At present, Yavapai and Sanchez were clean, but in their time they’d hidden from the law in many a mountain stronghold. The infamous duo had been suspected of robbing Butterfield stages, but they’d never been caught. Butter-field had hired more shotgun riders and ordered them to shoot to kill, and that had slowed the stage robberies considerably. Mexico, following its devastating defeat by the United States, had begun cleaning up some of the hellholes on the Mexican side of the border, so there were fewer and fewer havens for misfits like Yavapai and Sanchez. The pair had become as unwelcome south of the border as they were in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. They were perilously close to being forced into honest work, if they could find any.
     

Chapter 2
     
    Davis and his companions had no trouble finding Yavapai and Sanchez. The Mexicans were well dressed in tight-legged black trousers, white ruffled shirts, and waist-length black jackets with fancy red embroidery. Their high-heeled boots were polished black, with big roweled silver spurs. Neither of them spoke, only nodded to confirm their identity after Gary Davis spoke to them.
    “I need a guide,” said Davis. “One that knows his way around the Superstitions.”
     
    “You seek the Logan mine, no?” Sanchez said with a grin.
     
    “Yes,” said Davis uncomfortably.
     
    “Fi’ dollaire each day,” said Yavapai. “For Sanchez and Yavapai, fi’ dollaire each.”
     
    “Five dollars a day, and that’s all,” Davis said angrily. “I ain’t payin’ but one of you.”
     
    “Both of us go,” said Sanchez, “or neither of us.”
     
    The two of them leaned back in their chairs, rested their boots on the table, and tipped their high-crowned hats down over their faces. The
gringos
had been dismissed.
     
    “All right, damn it,” Davis growled, “I’ll take both of you. I suppose you want some money in advance?”
     
    “No, Señor,” said Sanchez. “We trust you.” He tilted his hat back on his head and grinned slyly at Davis.
     
    “You will provide the pack mules and provisions,” Yavapai said, coming to life. “When and where are we to begin?”
     
    “In the mornin’, at daylight,” said Davis. “Meet me at the Frontier Hotel.”
     
    The Mexicans watched Davis and his companions stalk out the door.
     
    “If there is gold,” Sanchez sneered, “so much the better. If there is none, good mules will fetch fifty
pesos
apiece in Tucson or Tombstone.”
     
    Ado and Dallas left their newly acquired mule and packsaddle at the livery and their order for supplies at the general store. The same men who had followed them from the hotel continued to pursue them as they returned to it.
    “It’s still early in the day,” Arlo said. “Maybe we’d better get some sleep. We may be up late tonight.”
     
    Unaccustomed to sleeping in the daytime, they dozed fitfully. Early in the evening they went down to the hotel dining room for supper. The only other occupants were Davis, Rust, and Bollinger, who sat drinking coffee and fortifying it with whiskey from a bottle on the table before them. They seemed not to notice Arlo and Dallas as they took a table near the door. They were almost finished eating when Paulette Davis and the Logan twins entered the dining room. As they passed the table where the cowboys were eating, one of the girls dropped a tiny wad of paper at Arlo’s feet. He waited until the trio was seated at their table, then purposely let his napkin slip to the floor. As he gathered it up, he concealed the bit of paper in his hand. The two men paid for their meal and returned to their