He waited long enough for Dumfries to get himself placed and went up the stairs. The corridor was dim, only a single lantern at the far end giving any light. Baum moved slowly, cautiously, checking the brass numerals tacked to the doors. Cutter Sutcliffe had told him the number of Azul’s room, and when the German reached it, he paused. The hotel was quiet, poised in that silent time after the late-night drinkers have returned to bed and before anyone wakes. He eased his Colt from the holster, turning away from the door so that his body muffled the triple click of the hammer going back. Then he stepped to the middle of the corridor, measuring the distance to the door.

The door was constructed of flimsy wood, fastened only by a small lock. Baum was a big man, and strong. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, then swung his left leg up as he lunged forwards. The heel of his boot struck flat and hard against the plate of the lock. And the doorframe splintered, the catch-bar tearing out a ragged length of wood.

The door swung open and Baum went through.

Enough light was coming from the open window that he was able to make out the shape on the bed. He saw a man with shoulder length blond hair start upright, one hand reaching round towards the gun slung from the brass rail.

He let his momentum carry him forwards, slamming the butt of the Colt down against the outstretched wrist. The man grunted, his hand smashed clear of the gun. Then he brought his left arm round, aiming a punch at Baum’s face. The German took it on his shoulder and swept the Colt over and down in a vicious flailing movement that drove the metal braced butt against the man’s neck, where it joined his broad shoulders.

Azul grunted again and felt consciousness slip away in an explosion of agonizing light.

Baum rolled clear of the bed, holding the Colt rock steady on the supine form. There was no further movement, only the labored breathing of a man fighting the numbed muscles of his own throat. Baum closed the door and put a match to the kerosene lamp.

A soft yellow glow filled the room, shining on the sun-bleached hair of the man on the bed, accentuating the lean planes of his face. The bounty hunter stared at him, assuring himself that he had found the right quarry. Then he holstered his gun and went over to the window.

His soft call brought Dumfries inside the hotel, and between them they got Azul dressed and lashed his wrists together before he started to regain consciousness. They collected what little gear he had and got him on his feet. He was still groggy, but sufficiently in control that he could stand and follow Dumfries out of the room. Baum came behind, the Colt cocked and pointed at the half-breed’s back.

Outside, night was beginning to fade into morning. It was still dark, but off to the east there was a faint glow in the sky. The air was cold, clearing the half-breed’s head and driving away the nausea roiled up by the stunning blow. He glanced at the two men flanking him.

Both were tall, but one was muscled out, shoulders and chest thrusting apart the front of his dark gray suit. He wore a thick, waxed mustache, and his face was lumpy as an old potato. The other was thin, silver hair spilling from under a wide-brimmed black Stetson. He wore ordinary work clothes under a dark coat, and the angular facets of his face were contorted in fanatical lines. Azul recognized him from the ambush back in the Zunis.

‘You’re Dumfries.’ His voice sounded thick, and he had difficulty getting his tongue around the words. ‘Where’s Cal?’

The rancher’s face was answer enough, the grin radiating pure evil.

‘Shut up,’ said the other man. ‘I can carry you if I need.’

Azul took the hint, trying to place the accent.

They reached the stable and the half-breed stood silent as he watched his horse saddled. Then he climbed astride – awkward with both hands tied and his head still ringing – with two guns on him. Both men mounted, and the larger fastened a loop around Azul’s saddle horn, then ran a leader to his own horse.

‘Let’s go.’

They moved out into the gray blackness of the early dawn.

To Azul’s surprise they headed south, rather than eastwards. He had expected a ride back through Paradise Valley to San Jacinto, but instead they were moving towards the Mexican border, riding hard, as though both men were anxious to get clear of Lordsburg as fast as possible.

For around one hour they rode through the mist coming off the prairie. In Azul’s condition it was like riding through a dream: ethereal, unreal. The cold air had cleared his head enough that he could take in details, enough that he could speak, but the early morning mist seemed to climb inside his mind and fill the recesses of his brain with fog.

He was pleased when the big man called a halt.

By then the sun was boiling the mist off the flatlands and he was able to see his captors more clearly. He saw that Dumfries was well into his fifties, and the other man around twenty years younger. Dumfries looked like a hard-working rancher with money behind him: his face was lined with years and grief and anger; his hands were calloused, but the skin was beginning to blotch and soften, as though both age and lack of work were catching up on him. The other man appeared, at first sight, to be softer. His face was ruddy rather than tanned, and what lines showed were due to the natural configurations rather than age or time spent outdoors. When he removed his hat, he exposed a thick crop of reddish, stubble-cut hair. His suit was expensive, but grubby, the cleanest items on his body the gun belt and the boots. Everything about him spelled Gunman.

And he was strong.

When they halted he dropped the lead rein and came down off his horse faster than Azul expected. He tugged the knot binding the half-breed’s hands to the saddle horn free and dragged his prisoner clear of the gray horse as easily as he might have lifted a child.

Azul slumped on the sand, watching the big man get a fire started as the other set hobbles on the ponies and doled out oats.

‘Where we going?’ he asked.

‘Cinqua.’ The voice was guttural, but he still couldn’t place the accent. ‘South of the border.’

‘I know it,’ said Azul. ‘Maybe five days from here. Why?’

‘Man gave me money to bring you there.’ The redhead poked at the fire. ‘He’s waitin’ for you.’

‘Who?’ The half-breed was suddenly curious. ‘Why’s he want me?’

‘I never asked.’ The big man got the fire how he wanted it and set a bacon-filled pan over the flames. ‘I just do this for the money.’

‘Bounty hunter.’ There was no condemnation in Azul’s tone: just acceptance. ‘How come you’re not working for Dumfries?’

‘He gets to see you hang. He paid to come along.’

‘It was worth that much?’ Azul shrugged. ‘Just to see me hang?’

‘To him.’ The big man stirred the bacon round. ‘I’m just doin’ a job.’

‘What you called?’ asked Azul.

‘Fritz Baum. Some folks call me The German.’

‘I never heard of you.’ The half-breed moved his wrists as far as he could. Baum made good knots. ‘How much you getting?’

‘A thousand,’ answered Baum. ‘You must mean a lot to the feller.’

‘What’s he look like?’ Azul asked.

‘Never saw him,’ said Baum. ‘He just come up in a black coach an’ give me the money. Said he’d wait in Cinqua until I brought you in.’

Azul nodded, then: ‘Who killed Backenhauser?’

‘Dumfries.’ Baum shrugged. ‘He used my knife, but I never thought he’d do it that way. That man’s halfway crazy.’

‘It was bad?’ Azul’s voice was cold.

‘He butchered him. I thought he’d just slit the guy’s throat an’ be done with it, but he hacked him apart.’

Azul said nothing. Just got his legs placed more comfortably and thought about the future. And the past.

He could understand Amos Dumfries wanting revenge for the death of his son, but not the man’s need to butcher the artist. It was – according to his conscience – justified that a man should seek revenge for the killing of a loved one. But Dumfries’s son had been killed clean, in a fair fight. That – especially by the rules of the pinda-lick-oyi – called for a clean death in return. The Apache side of his nature could understand torture or mutilation – where and when the brutal laws of the Bedonkohe demanded such retribution. But in Backenhauser’s case there was no such justification.

‘Here.’ Baum’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘You eat this.’

Azul took the plate of bacon and set it down between his legs. ‘Be easier with my hands free.’

‘Lotta things are easier that way.’ Baum chuckled. ‘Like gettin’ away. You eat like that or go hungry.’