“Get to the point,” Steve said shortly, and met the cold gray gaze that came to rest on him. “I assume you have one. You always do.”
“Yes, I do. Your wife is acquainted with Porfirio Díaz, I believe.”
“As you well know, she worked with him as a French interpreter after Juarez took control of Mexico.”
“And she has also become acquainted with Lerdo. During her time spent in Mexico, she managed to make the…ah…acquaintance of quite a few influential men. But then, a woman as lovely as your wife would be a magnet to powerful men. It’s always that way.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly, cold and blue, as he studied Bishop’s bland countenance. Coins clicked, sounding suddenly loud in the smoke-shrouded silence. Bishop dealt out cards with swift efficiency, speaking around the cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth.
“Do you still own land in Chihuahua? A ranch convenient for the Union Pacific to run their rails through?”
“As you no doubt know, I still own interests in both. I’ll take two cards.”
Bishop slid two across the table toward him. “Now that the United States has railroad tracks being laid in Mexico—due in large part to Lerdo’s generous concessions—the current state of affairs in Mexico is uncertain, to say the least. In the north, Luis Terrazas, as governor of the state of Chihuahua, has the support of the locals. The fact that he has gained their support by his rather generous use of federal taxes to establish a strong militia to fight the Apache, and has acquired a personal fortune, has not been missed by certain officials in Mexico City.”
“Nor by Díaz.” Steve leaned over and scraped a match across the floor, lit a cigar and squinted at Bishop through the curl of smoke rising in the air. He shook the match and tossed it into an ashtray. “Terrazas supports Lerdo as president. It will cost him if Díaz succeeds in his coup.”
“Yes, so it seems. See you ten and raise ten.” A crisp banknote slid atop the growing pile in the middle of the table. “It might be beneficial to any interested parties to have a foot in each camp, so to speak.”
“Mexico is already in chaos. I suppose it would be too much for our government to keep out of it.”
Bishop’s wintry gaze studied him dispassionately for a moment. “If I thought you were serious in your sudden distaste for our policies, I would be vastly concerned.”
“Hell, I am serious. Has it ever occurred to any of you that maybe we’re part of the problem, not a cure? It would make more sense to educate the citizens rather than kill those who disagree with the current regime.”
“‘Know in order to foresee, foresee in order to work,’ I suppose? Positivism at its best. A ‘Triumph and Study over Ignorance and Sloth’ motto that works well in theory, but is not always practical. You see, I am familiar with Gabino Barreda as well. A brilliant man with most intriguing hypotheses, but shortsighted in applying them to modern life, I fear.”
“Juarez didn’t think so.”
“Juarez is dead. And so, for the most part, is his effort to educate an entire country in Positivist philosophy. Despite Barreda’s noble efforts, it is far more practical to the rural youth to have enough food than it is to follow elitist dogma, however virtuous in concept it may be. I’m surprised you’d think it practical.”
“Not practical, just idealistic.” Steve grimaced. “I find that the thought of my own children growing up in a world where the first solution to disagreement is all-out war is somewhat daunting.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. You’ve become well-acquainted with your children now, haven’t you? How old are they?”
“That’s not the point.” Steve folded his cards, shoved them toward the middle of the table.
Bishop’s cigar made an arc, gray ash drifting to the table to lie in a fine powder over cards and oilcloth. “Then what is the point?”
Impatiently, Steve reached for the bottle of bourbon, poured a half glass in a dingy tumbler and sipped it. “It should be fairly obvious. I’m ready for peace, not war.”
In the thick silence that descended on the room, Bishop regarded the men with an opaque gaze, his eyes moving from one to the other before coming to rest on Steve’s wary face.
“The situation in Mexico is dangerous. A few years ago, when the French were involved, the outcome was never really in doubt. We knew the French would not stay in a country that was not their own once the tide turned against them. But this is different. Díaz is Mexican, an Indian from Oaxaca just like Juarez. It’s his country—he’ll fight to keep it.
“There is an ancient principle of politics that a revolution devours its children. It happened in France during the Terror, and it happened to Maximilian in Mexico. During the Reform War and the French intervention as well, Díaz distinguished himself as the strong right arm of the Liberal cause. By the time the French were ousted, he was a general and well-known throughout Mexico. It was a matter of great pride to him that he was so influential, a staunch ally of Juarez until their estrangement.”
When Bishop paused, eyes squinting against the curl of cigar smoke, Tige tossed his cards to the table. “What happened to estrange them, if Díaz was so close to Juarez?”
A ring of smoke drifted into the air above the table as Bishop pursed his lips. “It was the kind of misunderstanding that causes wars and revolutions. When Juarez was making a triumphal entry into Mexico City after beating the French, General Díaz rode out to meet his old friend and mentor, wearing a brilliant uniform and riding a splendid white
