Two hours later, as the pre-dawn grayness gave way to the first real rays of the sun, he found Cal Backenhauser.

The artist was slumped against a pine tree, sketching the two horses cropping what little grass flanked the trail.

‘I thought you must be killed,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

‘We argued some,’ shrugged the half-breed. ‘I tried to paint Dumfries a picture of what could happen if he follows us.’

‘He like your style?’ asked Backenhauser.

Azul shook his head: ‘No. He wants to paint it all red.’

Chapter Five

IT WAS TWO weeks later that Fritz Baum reached San Jacinto, and that was mostly accidental.

The German bounty hunter had spent close on a month looking for the man called Breed. Or Azul. Or Matthew Gunn. He had passed money to the informants he knew and promised more for sure information. On his own, he had taken the logical step of checking the stage lines linking the territory, and spoken with every driver and guard he could find. The lines mostly converged on Santa Fe, and it was there he got his first lead.

‘Sure,’ said the grizzled old man who ran the Wells Fargo depot, ‘I know Matt Gunn. Kieron’s boy. Me an’ Kieron used to trade together, an’ he brought the kid to see me one time. Blond youngster. Built hisself a name, I heard, after his folks got killed. I ain’t seen him in years, but Charley Gracey said there was talk of someone like him down around San Jacinto.’

‘Who’s Charley Gracey?’ asked Baum. ‘Can I talk to him?’

‘Real butterfly,’ said the old man. ‘Drives coaches when he ain’t doin’ things he shouldn’t. He was on the San Jacinto run up to this week.’

Five dollars changed hands and the old man said, ‘You’ll find him in the Queen’s Hotel. Two blocks down.’

Charley Gracey was a small man with lank brown hair and wiry muscles. He wore a pair of faded plaid trousers and a fringed, rawhide jacket. He acted tougher than he was, and mostly carried his big driver’s whip with him: he thought it added an element of romantic menace to his character.

Baum swiftly destroyed the driver’s image of himself. ‘Gracey?’ he asked, abruptly. ‘The stage driver?’

‘That’s me.’ Charley stroked his whip as the big man settled into the chair across the table. ‘What you want?’

‘Information,’ said Baum. ‘I heard you was in San Jacinto. Heard you might know something I want to learn.’

‘That’s right?’ asked Gracey, picking up his whip. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Don’t matter.’ Baum reached across the table to lift the bottle. Then took a glass from a passing waiter and helped himself. ‘And don’t think about using that fly-kicker. Nor a gun. ‘I’ll kill you if you do.’

Charley Gracey believed him: he set his whip down and put both hands on the table beside him. Then he watched Baum drink his liquor and said:

‘What you want to know?’

‘There’s a man called Matthew Gunn,’ said Baum. ‘A half-breed. Called Azul, or Breed, too. Tall, blond. Wears buckskin pants an’ a leather vest. White shirt; black Stetson. Hair comes down to his shoulders. I heard you seen him in San Jacinto.’

‘Heard of him,’ said Gracey, ‘not done seen him. He was around there, though.’ He picked up the bottle and topped his own glass. ‘What’s it worth?’

‘That depends on you,’ said Baum. ‘It could be worth twenty dollars. Or your life.’

‘Jesus!’ Gracey swallowed hard, choking on the whiskey. ‘I only got it on hearsay. I wasn’t there when it happened.’

‘What happened?’ demanded Baum. ‘An’ remember a bullet don’t cost twenty bucks.’

‘Real big shoot up,’ said Gracey. ‘There was a double killing in a saloon. The Golden Goose. Two fellers got shot. One was Amos Dumfries’s son; the other was his top hand.’

‘Who’s Amos Dumfries?’ asked Baum.

‘Biggest goddam landowner in that area,’ said Gracey, nervously. ‘Rich an’ mean.’

‘Go on,’ said the German. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Man that shot ’em answers your description,’ said Gracey. ‘But it don’t stop there. Seems like it all started when Wesley Dumfries took exception to some artist. The half-breed stepped in an’ shot Wesley. Then he shot Cole Turner. So Amos sent men lookin’ for them. The ’breed killed two an’ crippled as many more. Ran off their horses an’ rode away laughing.’

‘When you hear this?’ asked Baum.

‘Two weeks ago,’ said Gracey. ‘Last time I went through San Jacinto. Amos Dumfries was fixin’ the posses then gettin’ ready to hunt the ’breed down.’

‘How far’s this place?’ asked Baum. ‘San Jacinto?’

‘Two days ride, I guess,’ said Gracey ‘You want to buy me a drink?’

Baum dropped two five-dollar bills on the table and stood up.

‘Buy your own.’

‘You was talkin’ about twenty,’ complained Gracey. ‘An’ I give you what you wanted.’

‘You want to argue it?’ The German turned. ‘You want that?’

Charley Gracey shook his head. ‘Nossir. I don’t want to argue nothin’ with you.’

Baum nodded and went out through the swinging doors. As they closed behind him Gracey muttered, ‘Bastard!’ But he kept his voice low.

A day and a half later Baum was in San Jacinto.

Amos Dumfries was in the Golden Goose, organizing the pursuit. He looked up as the big German came in and walked up to his table.

‘Name’s Baum,’ he said. ‘Fritz Baum. Maybe you heard of me?’

Dumfries nodded. ‘Ain’t you the feller Nathan Kellerman used to clear them Mexican sheepherders off his land?’

‘I worked for Mr. Kellerman,’ agreed Baum. ‘Now I’m working for someone else. Might tie in with what you’re doing.’

‘I’m just huntin’ the man who killed my son,’ said Dumfries. ‘Wesley an’ a few others.’

‘Big man?’ asked Baum. ‘A half-breed, with pale hair?’

‘That sounds like him,’ said the rancher. ‘You know him?’

‘He’s called Azul,’ said Baum. ‘Or Breed. Or Matthew Gunn. I been hired to find him.’