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governor’s palace.”
    â€œListen to him,” Jim Woods said drily into Charley’s ear. “Richly bestowed, he says. From what I hear, that’s a hell of an understatement.”
    â€œMexico,” Crabb went on in a deep, round tone, “is in a state of political upheaval today, and the man who holds a governorship is a powerful man indeed. There need be no question in your minds that Señor Pesquiera can well afford to repay those to whom he is indebted, just as soon as he takes control of the province.”
    â€œIf he takes control,” Woods murmured dourly, and someone beside him said, “Shut up.”
    Crabb was continuing. “I have with me, if you want to examine them, agreements from Pesquiera himself, whereby every man in my party will be granted both mining concessions and extensive land tracts in northern Sonora, near the boundary of the Gadsden Purchase. I’m sure you are all aware that the gold deposits of northern Mexico are second to none in the world—not even those of our beloved California.”
    â€œBeloved, is it?” Charley muttered. He had to move aside to see past the head of a tall man. The sun struck the earth and crowd and the smell of unwashed bodies was strong when the breeze lulled. Crabb paused to sip from a glass. His eyes went along the crowd and Charley tried to make out the meaning of the man’s set expression—was it contempt or only earnestness? Crabb said:
    â€œA few years ago, Sonora was one of the richest provinces of all Mexico. Today vast ranchos stand deserted, mines lie idle but rich, unclaimed cattle roam the plains by thousands, and all this great land stands ready for us to take it. All we have to do, my friends, is be prepared to stand fast against the Apaches. It is the Apaches who have laid Sonora waste, and it is the Apaches from whom we must reclaim it. This is the task Pesquiera wishes of us—and, gentlemen, it is a task for which he is willing to pay.”
    Crabb’s pause was obviously meaningful. The day was warm for January; the sun was made of brass. Crabb swept the crowd with his chin-firm glance and said in a lower tone, “Think about it, gentlemen. My men are among you, ready to take down your names. We will be happy to have all of you—there is more than enough for all, where we go.”
    Back in the crowd, some fool began to applaud, and the hand-clapping took hold and pounded in undulating waves of sound against Charley’s ears until Crabb stepped down from the platform amid that steady roar. The gold camps were playing out; Crabb had found a willing audience for his promises of wealth and booty. The applause dimmed quickly until there was only one man smacking his palms together, and that too stopped quickly, as if the unseen man had noticed his own foolishness. Somewhere nearby in the crowd a coarse voice said, “They got pretty women in Mexico. I always was partial to that brown meat.” The man laughed shortly. “Gold lyin’ all over the ground, boys. Oil your guns, hey?”
    Charley turned away with his head bowed in thought. He was suspicious of it all; something about it did not ring true; he did not know exactly what it was.
    The crowd slowly shattered into small groups, each one a nub of excited conversation. Men drifted away in all directions. The recent storm had left the streets hard-packed and rammed firm, and there was little dust. Jim Woods, grizzled and hard-muscled, was going downstreet with a small group, all of them talking impetuously, gesticulating and laughing heartily. Crabb had disappeared, along with the frock-coated men who had shared the platform with him. A large figure filled the doorway of the Triple Ace—Bill Randolph, the bartender. Charley’s throat tightened and he turned, going down the walk toward Jim Woods’s place.
    At a corner table, Norval Douglas sat behind a large ballot box and a number of sheets of paper and