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  “You knew, but you let me go ahead. Why?”

  “You ask an awful lot of questions, Hawker.”

  “And you’re awful shy on answers, Evans.”

  “Maybe it comes from doing most of my growing up in an orphanage. Answer too many questions in one of those places and they figure you’re smart enough to be put in charge of some of the fun work. Scrubbing toilets. Or taking care of the babies.”

  They had come to the crossroad. The road seemed narrower, hazed by light rain. In the headlights the leaves in the wind looked white.

  “So which way, Evans? I don’t want to make a wrong turn and risk you having to shoot me before you’re really ready.”

  “That’s mighty thoughtful of you, James. Turn right.”

  To the left the road led back to the cattle ranch. To the right it paralleled the Williams’s ranch, then led out of Star County.

  Hawker started to question the order, then decided not to. If Evans wanted him to drive out of Star County, all the better.

  He figured he had one chance and one chance only. The Randall attack/survival knife was still in the handmade scabbard strapped to his calf. If he could swerve the truck into a ditch, then draw the knife before Evans recovered, he might be able to put him away before he got a good shot off.

  Strangely, Hawker realized he didn’t want to do it. He liked Evans—even now, as he held the revolver on him. Somehow he still didn’t seem to fit in with Skate Williams and his, loonies.

  Hawker just couldn’t picture him associated with the Mexican scum who ran the Bar of the Unknown Souls or Williams’s mercenaries who would kill anybody or anything for a price. And he especially couldn’t see him associated with Williams, a man who had obviously gone insane with the hunger for power.

  But he would have to kill Evans. Or try. Because to fail meant his own death. And the death of Cristoba de Abella. And possibly the slower death of literally hundreds of thousands of Americans—if he was right.

  And Hawker was damn sure he was right.

  As he drove, Hawker began looking for a likely spot. The ditch had to be deep but not so deep that it flipped the truck. Hawker had no desire to be pinned under two tons of metal while waiting for Skate Williams to come along and finish the job.

  Evans rode quietly. The Colt .44 was balanced on his lap. When he noticed Hawker looking at it, he said, “Don’t be getting any wild ideas, Hawk.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a tin of snuff. Copenhagen. “Want some?”

  “I thought the condemned man was supposed to get anything he wanted.”

  “I’d offer you a cigarette, but I don’t smoke.”

  “Me, neither.”

  Evans shrugged comically. “Then this is the only choice you got.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Hawker had used snuff when he’d played baseball in the Detroit farm system. That had been long ago, and he had forgotten how much he liked it.

  Hawker spit out the window. The wind was cool. The rain was more of a mist, and it was warm on his face. Evans said, “A second ago you were thinking about going for my gun, weren’t you?”

  “A mind reader, too, huh? You’ve got all sorts of talents, Evans.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad you didn’t. Things may not be as they seem, Hawk. Don’t do anything rash. Not yet.”

  “Just go quietly to my execution, huh? I was never very good in the lamb-to-slaughter department.”

  “No,” Evans said wryly, “I can see that. And maybe that’s why I ought to tell you now—”

  Evans didn’t get a chance to finish. Fifty yards ahead of them a searing white spotlight flashed on. Two soldiers stepped in front of the light, signaling for Hawker to stop.

  Hawker cursed himself silently for not making his move sooner. He should have tried to jump Evans immediately. Maybe slammed the truck into a tree or something.

  But now it was too late.

  Now he was dead.

  Unless they assumed Evans had already searched him and they took him in carrying the Randall. If they did he would talk them into a meeting with Williams. And Williams would go with him to the grave, the knife through his throat.

  “Just pull over nice and easy, James,” Quirt Evans said calmly. “Oh—and let me do the talking.”

  Hawker looked at him oddly. Evans winked. “And don’t be afraid to use that nasty-looking automatic if things start getting rough.”

  “What in the hell—”

  Evans got out and left the door open. Hawker watched as he approached the guards. There were two who stood in front of the light, one who held the light, and several more moving around the truck behind the light.

  Evans had put on his hat and had holstered his pistol. He had a long, fluid walk. His big hands were buried in his pockets. He grinned at the guards and nodded. Hawker could hear them talking through the open window.

  “Evening, boys. Catch them bastards, yet?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Quirt. Naw. But we will. I guess they tore up the ranch pretty good. Killed a bunch of our people. Mr. Williams is steaming.”

  “I can’t figure out why in hell they’d bother Skate. What’s he got on that ranch, anyway? A bunch of money squirreled away or something?”

  Hawker was surprised at the way Evans played innocent.

  “Don’t worry about what Mr. Williams has on his ranch,” the guard said severely. “If he wants you to know, Quirt, he’ll tell you.”

  “Okay, okay. No need to get huffy about it.” Evans kicked at a rock in the road. “I’ll just go on about my way. One of the boys and me are going into San Antone to get some medicine for that colt I was working on. Be back in less than two hours, I guess.”

  “Mr. Williams is sending you?”

  “No, but he wants me to save that colt.”

  “We got our orders, Quirt. We’re supposed to search every vehicle that comes down this road. Without exception.”

  Evans shrugged. “Fine with me. Search all you want. I just hope that colt hangs on. He’s in a bad way, and I’d hate to have to tell Skate I missed saving him by ten minutes because you guys were just doing your job.”

  The guard hesitated. “The horse is in a bad way, huh?”

  “He’s not good. And you know how Skate feels about that foal. He’s got a hundred grand wrapped up in the stud fee alone.”

  “Why don’t you get the pilot to fly you over in the chopper if it’s that important?”

  “I would, but he’s out playing fighter pilot. Looking for them terrorists or whatever they are. And I’ll tell you, he won’t be the only one to lose his job if that colt hits the high trail.”

  “Okay, Quirt, okay,” the guard said quickly. “You can pass. But if anybody asks we searched you good.”

  Evans laughed as he turned and walked back toward the truck. “I’ll tell ’em you didn’t miss nothing but a tooth cavity and two cockroaches.”

  He got in the truck and closed the door. He exhaled a long breath and whispered, “Let’s get the hell out of here. But not too fast.”

  Hawker started the truck and put it in gear.

  The spotlight followed them along.

  As they passed the guards the spotlight focused on Hawker’s face. Hawker heard an exclamation in the background, and then the guard who had questioned Evans trotted out in front of the truck and stopped them again. He came around to the window. Hawker could see that he had his gun drawn.

  “Who’s your friend here, Quirt?”

  The spotlight was shining into the truck. Hawker had hidden the Colt Commando under his legs. But the Walther, he noticed, was still on the seat with his knapsack.

  “One of the new boys from the ranch,” Evans said easily. “Name’s Hawker. He’s a good man with horses, so I carried him along.”

  The guard brought his gun up to the window. Hawker could sense the sudden tension in him, and he knew that they were going to be searched. He hoped Evans realized it.

  “Is that Hawker’s automatic on the seat?” Nonch
alantly the guard shifted his revolver so that the barrel was pointed toward Hawker’s head.

  Behind him, the other guards were closing in, aware that there might be trouble. Three of them positioned themselves in front of the truck.

  Evans smiled as he reached over and picked up the Walther. “This little thing?” He shifted it so that he held it by the grip smothering it in his big hand. “I guess this is yours, isn’t it, James—”

  Still in mid-sentence, Evans snapped off three rapid shots at point-blank range. The guard was flung backward. He clawed at his face. His husky scream was oddly muted. His mouth had been shot away.

  In the same instant, Hawker and Evans cracked heads as they both ducked down in the seat. The truck’s windshield exploded in on them as the guards opened up on them in unison. Somehow the door on Evans’s side jolted open, and he spilled out onto the dirt road. Without hesitating, Hawker swept up the Colt Commando and dove outside, firing in mid-flight.

  The three guards who stood in front of the truck were snapped backward as if yanked by a rope when the chain of slugs smacked through them. Wounded, one of them climbed feebly to his knees and raised his weapon again. Hawker squeezed off a single shot that blew his chest open.

  His hands deadly calm, Hawker snapped out the spent clip. Quirt Evans lay beneath him on the dirt road.

  “Quirt, are you hit?”

  The tall cowboy rolled out from under Hawker’s legs. His hat had been knocked off, and he rubbed his temple groggily. “Man, I’ve ridden Brahmans that didn’t have heads as hard as yours.”

  Beyond the truck Hawker could hear men running. He reached up into the truck, jammed a fresh clip into the assault rifle, and stood. Two more of the soldiers were charging at them, and Hawker cut them down with two short bursts. Immediately a volley of fire that originated from behind the guards’ truck sent Hawker diving for cover.

  “Damn it, Quirt, you didn’t answer me. Are you hit?”

  Evans was sitting now, still rubbing his head. “No. But I feel like I’ve been axed.”

  Hawker knew they didn’t have time to play a cat-and-mouse game with the remaining guards. He reached up into the seat, ducked another volley of fire, and pulled his knapsack down on top of him.

  There were two hand grenades left, and Hawker took them both. He pulled both pins at the same time, counted a silent thousand-one, thousand-two, then, in quick succession, lobbed them overhanded toward the guards.

  One landed in the bed of their stake truck, the other just beyond.

  There was a deafening double explosion and a blinding white light as the phosphorous burned. Men screamed; glass burst; there was a third explosion as the heat found the gas tank of the other truck.

  And then all was silent as the debris of metal and flesh rained down through the mist, leaving only the cricket chirrr and the rain plop of the Texas night.

  Quirt Evans got shakily to his feet and drew his revolver. “We’re going to have to fight our way out now, Hawk,” he said groggily. “Those fuckers got artillery over there. And that last shell landed too damn close.”

  Hawker stood up, his assault rifle surveying the area. The stake truck no longer existed. There was only a charred frame and the smell of burned tires. Nothing recognizable as a human being remained. Hawker patted Evans’s shoulder. “That was our artillery, Quirt. They’re dead. All of them. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Hawker couldn’t see Evans’s eyes in the darkness, but he recognized the tone in his voice. “Jesus, Hawker. All of them? Already? Man, I didn’t half-believe those stories we heard about you. But now … shit.”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ Quirt? Are you a cop? I know you’re more than just a rodeo rider.”

  Evans found his hat and put it on. “I am a rodeo rider, Hawk. But I’m also a colonel.”

  Now it was Hawker’s turn to be surprised. “As in the United States Army?”

  “Better than that, Hawk. As in the Texas Rangers.”

  fifteen

  “Hola.… Buenas noches?”

  “Sancho! It’s James Hawker. Sorry to be calling so late.”

  There was the muted squall of a baby in the background.

  “Ah! It is my business partner, the respected vice-president of Chicago Fossil Fuels Limited. You are checking on our progress in the great search for oil, no?”

  Hawker smiled. He stood in a phone booth outside a Mobil station in Dilley, Texas. A haze of moths and mosquitoes beat themselves against the cold fluorescent light that illuminated the booth. Hawker and Evans had driven north out of Star County. When they were sure they weren’t being followed, they stopped at the first small town.

  “No, Sancho. I didn’t call about the oil. I called about something else. I need a little help.”

  “Anything, my friend. You have only to ask. Is there—wait, my friend, the chiquillo is trying to bite our mean dog. I will be right back.”

  The phone clunked down, and the crying grew louder.

  The Mobil station was closed. The circular awning above the fuel pumps was white and brightly lighted. In the stormy night it looked like a flying saucer descending.

  A souped-up Corvette Stingray was parked in front of the station. A FOR SALE sign was taped inside the windshield. Tassels from a graduation cap hung from the rearview mirror.

  It was one forty-seven A.M.

  The streets of Dilley were empty.

  Sancho Rigera returned to the phone. The crying had stopped. He said, “This mean dog, I will sell him when we are rich! The baby teethes on his paw, and the dog gets angry. He growls and the baby bites harder. Then he snaps, and the baby cries. Such a mean dog does not deserve to live with the president of a corporation, my friend!”

  “I agree, Sancho. I’ll help you sell him if you just listen for a minute.”

  “Yes, of course. Please continue.”

  “I need a place where I can get a few hours’ sleep. I have a friend with me. We won’t take up much room, but I need to be with people we can trust, and I also need a place to hide my truck.”

  “You are in trouble.”

  “Yes, Sancho. I’m in trouble. But it’s not with the law. It is with the men who tried to force you and the others into selling the mineral rights to your property.”

  “Hah! The cabrones. I would do anything to help you.” Sancho Rigera hesitated. “This friend of yours, amigo? My pretty daughter Juanita would be heartbroken if it was a woman.”

  “It’s not a woman, Sancho. Anything but.”

  “Ah, that is good news. You will need food. I will have the esposa light the fire. We will heat some chicken and rice for you. And I have five bottles of Dos Equis beer hidden in the spring. I will get them—”

  “Don’t go to any trouble, Sancho. All we want to do is sleep.”

  “But you must stay up long enough for me to tell you about the drilling. Juan Probisco has secured four sections of good pipe—from what source, I do not know. Though it might be best not to mention it to any local police. We have already driven two of them by hand. The women in the village are upset because they no longer have a place to dump their cooking grease, but Juan Probisco says—”

  “Sancho, you can tell me all about it in the morning. Please, don’t wake anybody in your house. We don’t want to cause you any trouble. And don’t forget—we need a place to hide the truck. And, Sancho, we’re also going to need some buses. Or big trucks. All you can get your hands on. Can you do that?”

  “It will be done!”

  Hawker smiled. “And, Sancho, don’t be surprised if I look a little different to you.”

  “Your red hair? The putas have cut off your hair?”

  “Better than that, Sancho. Better than that. Don’t shoot if a one-armed man doesn’t get out of my truck.…”

  sixteen

  It had been a long ride on horseback, but there was no other choice. Williams’s men would have heard cars. They would have been ready.

  There were drawbacks to working with a team, but
there were also advantages. And when it came to working with the Texas Rangers, the advantages far outweighed the drawbacks.

  Quirt Evans had talked Hawker into it on the way to Sancho Rigera’s. And then he had talked some more while they wolfed down hot chicken and yellow rice, served by the shy-eyed and lovely Juanita Rigera.

  Evans based his argument on one often repeated truth: The Texas Rangers is no ordinary law-enforcement agency.

  Hawker already knew that. He had read enough about the Rangers and, in fact, had done a term paper on the organization while working on his B.A. in Law Enforcement. He knew the history almost as well as Evans.

  The Rangers was a band of rugged mounted riflemen organized in the early 1800s to protect American settlers from Indians and Mexican bandits. Unlike the U.S. Cavalry, the Rangers used the methods of their enemies to fight. One noted Texas politician summarized their abilities this way: “The Texas Ranger can ride like a Mexican, trail like an Indian, shoot like a Tennesseean, and fight like the very devil.”

  They were, in fact, America’s first guerrilla fighters.

  During the Mexican War of the 1840s, the federal government established forts along the Texas frontier and garrisoned them with regular troops. But Sam Houston, speaking in the U.S. Senate, asked that they be sent home. They didn’t need an army to defeat Mexico, said Houston. After all, they had one thousand Texas Rangers—and they were enough.

  Hawker knew most of the Rangers’ celebrated history, and he had heard that the modern-day Rangers were not much different from the Rangers of old. They still wore no uniforms. They still furnished their own transportation and weaponry. And they were still rugged individualists known for preferring quick thinking to force—but who could use deadly force, if need be, like few others in the world of law enforcement.

  So when Quirt Evans said he could have ten fully equipped Rangers, complete with court warrants, at the Rigera ranch within six hours, Hawker consented.

  As Evans reasoned, “If what you say about Skate Williams and his food franchise chain is true, Hawk, then we damn well can’t take the chance of his getting away. We’ve got to get him.”