They crowded into the small cantina, loud and unruly as they ranged through the room, eyes scanning frightened faces that turned toward them, then away, quickly, afraid to be noticed. He could feel the tension; it crouched in the low-ceilinged room like a feral beast, ravenous and dangerous.
There was no escape without drawing unwanted attention. Steve remained still, his cup of whiskey untouched.
Prowling through the crowded cantina, the soldiers took their time, obviously enjoying the fear they incited. Then, at some furtive signal, they suddenly pounced, jerking up men from stools to shove them toward the door, denouncing them as rebels.
“You are under arrest as a traitor to the government! Pig!” Cuffing a man who was slow to respond, one soldier laughed when the man sprawled to the floor, then viciously struck him with the butt of his rifle, again and again until the peasant lay still and bloodied. It effectively quelled any possible resistance by others.
Christ, just my luck to be in the middle of one of their roundups! Steve thought. He slid one hand down his side, skimming the heavy outline of the .45 in its holster and rearranging the heavy woolen folds of the serape he’d draped over his shoulders.
One of the soldiers paused beside Steve, waited for a moment, his very presence menacing. Steve didn’t react, even when the man nudged him.
“You are from San Luis Potosí?”
Steve shook his head and answered in the same rough dialect, “No, I am from La Junta.”
The soldier moved on, but returned in a few moments, this time with two other men. “You will come with us.”
Appearing to accede, Steve accompanied them without comment, but when he reached the doorway, he hung back to let them clear the opening first. He expected to be ambushed as he stepped outside, but was ready, the butt of his gun already filling his palm.
As he moved to the open doorway, muscles tensed and ready, a shadow detached from the wall and lights exploded behind his eyes before he could evade the blow. His pistol fired, the bullet slamming into the dirt at his feet, and he was only vaguely aware of boots and rifle butts slamming into his head and body as he curled into a knot to protect his belly.
When Ginny awoke, it was dark and Steve was gone. Light filtered in through an open shutter, along with the drone of flies and a barking dog. Somewhere, music played, a guitar lending soft melody to the night. She lay there a while, listening.
Where was Steve? Gone for food, probably, or a drink. She should get up, wash her face and hands. The pitcher and basin were cracked, but serviceable. When she finally rose and lit the lamp, a pool of wavering light showed her that there was no water in the pitcher.
Wearily, she searched for her shoes by the bed, and grabbed up the pitcher. Surely there was a well close by, so she would not have to go to the village well they had passed on their way in. Damn Steve, he should have seen to this, and not left it up to her to go out on her own in a strange place.
But it was a small village, after all, and it was unlikely that she would get lost. There was only the main street, and a ramshackle collection of mud huts with thatched roofs. The posada was the most elaborate building she had seen, boasting a patio as well as rooms built at an angle to the main structure.
Squares of light dotted the street, streaming through windows left open. Shadows darkened the street at this end, and the well was a bulky dark silhouette against the glow of distant lanterns. She crossed the dusty courtyard and street to reach the stone well. Water trickled from an iron spout in the shape of a lion’s gaping mouth, collecting below in a shallow basin of stone.
The cantina music grew louder now; a burst of laughter was shrill. Clutching the empty pitcher, Ginny’s head came up, and she frowned. It sounded odd.
Then her hand tightened on the handle of the pitcher as she saw the horses bunched in front of what must be the only cantina. So many horses! A uniformed soldier stood guard, obviously unhappy as he slouched against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
Soldiers. From Lerdo’s army, no doubt. Ginny stirred uneasily. None of her experiences with Mexican soldiers had been pleasant, though she had lived with Colonel Miguel Lopez a long time ago.
As she stood there, uncertain and listening, there was a volley of gunfire followed by screams and shouts. Her heart began to thud erratically and she dropped the pitcher with a crash. Oh God, not again, not again…Where was Steve?
Panic set in, and she ducked into the shadows behind the well, her spine pressed against damp stone as men spilled out of the cantina and into the street. Feeble bars of light slanted across unmistakable uniforms and shouts of anger filled the night.
Hiding in the dark, crouched down so she wouldn’t be seen, she watched for Steve. As more time passed and there was no sign of him, only the chaotic milling of soldiers rounding up citizens and shoving them into a line, linked by chains that she could hear clinking heavily, she had the rending thought that he might be among them. Oh God, no!
No, she told herself, Steve’s too smart to get caught like that. He’s hiding somewhere until the soldiers are gone and it’s safe to come out….
A hand descended upon her shoulder, startling a scream from her that she quickly muffled with one hand. Relief flooded her, and she rose to turn, knees weak with reaction. Of course he was too wary to be taken….
But the dark face that loomed out of the shadows was not Steve at all. Instead glittering black eyes pinned her like a helpless
