Ginny paused beside one of the columns that held up the second floor galeria. Inside, the long tables of food were piled high, and there was a steady stream of guests coming and going, laughing and talking, the women garbed in lovely gowns, their hair pinned up in elaborately decorated Spanish combs. It all seemed so festive, yet there was a strange undercurrent that she didn’t quite understand, evident only when she saw a man that she was convinced was Butch Casey meet with Steve at the fringe of the crowd.
That must be the old friend he had seen, his duty! Ginny frowned.
But if he was here, that meant her baggage had arrived. Or had it? Had he just arrived? If he was here, after all, then some of her worries were proven groundless. It should be a relief. So why did it leave her vaguely unsettled?
It was with a faint sense of shock that Ginny heard Steve tell his grandfather of their impending departure the next day after breakfast had ended.
Don Francisco frowned, brushing his mustache with one finger, a gesture that betrayed agitation. “But why must you leave so soon after arriving?”
“I apologize, sir, but I must get to Mexico City. The situation has escalated, and it’s only a matter of time before Díaz drives Lerdo out of Mexico.”
“What has this to do with you? Are you still involved with that Mr. Bishop? I sense his fine hand in this affair.”
“You know I have duties as an ambassador.” Some of the old impatience crept into Steve’s voice, and he cleared his throat. “It’s unexpected, but not a shock. Ginny can stay here with you—”
“No.” She looked up at him, eyes steady. “I told you that I will not be separated from you again. I’ll go to Mexico City with you. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, I am acquainted with both Lerdo and Díaz.”
A faint smile curved his mouth. “I’ve not forgotten.”
They left early the next morning, before the sun had risen above the mountain peaks.
19
Astrange, oppressive air hung over the small village as they rode down the main track, dust-grimed and weary. Most of the inhabitants were Tarahumara Indians, some of whom lived in caves on the valley floor at the foot of the high cliffs.
Ginny barely noticed her surroundings, she was so weary and sore. Horses might be the swiftest method of traveling the Sierra Madres, but they were certainly not the most comfortable. Next time—if there was a next time—she would go by carriage or stage, a circuitous route that would take much longer but not leave her so exhausted.
She was so tired she did not at first notice Steve’s frowning tension, the hard set of his mouth and narrowed eyes as he accompanied her inside the small, rough posada. The dialect spoken by the posadero was unfamiliar, an Indian dialect that she didn’t understand but apparently Steve did.
After a few minutes of conversation, he took her by the elbow and escorted her to the rear of the adobe building. “It’s not much, but it’s all there is, unless you want to sleep outside again.”
“Oh, Steve, I don’t think I can take another night of sleeping on the hard ground. I’ve gotten soft, I suppose. I don’t care if it’s a bed of straw, as long as it’s a bed!”
The room was tiny, with one window and a bed, a table against the far wall that held a water pitcher and a basin, and an oil lamp. There wasn’t even a chair, and Steve slung their saddlebags to the hard-packed dirt floor.
“It’s not the Astoria, but it will keep the rain off our heads. Is that a bed or a donkey’s breakfast?” He gave the offending item a kick, and chaff dusted the floor.
“I don’t care.” She peeled off her hat and loosened the buttons of her shirt.
It wasn’t much better than a hayrack, but at least it was fairly clean. Ginny spread her own blankets atop the crude bed formed of pine planks and a thin mattress, and lay down. She was asleep almost instantly.
Down the street from the shabby posada, Steve entered a small cantina and slouched against the bar, his hat shadowing his face as he waited. It was late; Paco should have been here long before now. All the arrangements were made. Señor Valdez in Ojinaga had met with Paco for the final shipment of rifles to be transferred from Casey’s possession to an agent for Díaz. Paco was to have shown up at the rendezvous with Casey, but hadn’t made it. With most of the rifles already passed on to Díaz’s army, there had been only the last of them to distribute.
Ginny had been right, of course. The rifles were hidden beneath garments in her trunks, the empty crates filled with straw and dishes once they’d left the ship. It was an uneasy alliance, a dance with the devil.
He remembered General Díaz well, had ridden with him for a while. He had been an efficient general, and would be a ruthless president. The human qualities of Benito Juarez had been evident in his presidency, a certain compassion mixed with the necessary regimen imposed on a man who ruled a country.
Díaz had none of those qualities, but he was capable of winning a revolution and controlling Mexico. If he could be tempered by his cabinet, the country would prosper, but that remained to be seen.
If Steve was wrong about Díaz, he would be instrumental in creating disaster, but it couldn’t be helped. Lerdo had been too weak to hold Mexico, and even with the help of the United States, had failed. Steve’s job was to play the odds and pick the victor and he’d done what he had to do.
Conversations around him abruptly ceased, as if a door had been shut. Steve glanced up, swearing softly under his breath as he recognized the uniforms. He kept his head down; he’d had trouble with Lerdo’s men before. They
