‘El gringo negro!’ He looked frightened. ‘You are a friend of his?’

Azul shook his head. ‘You know him?’

‘He smells of death,’ said the old man. ‘I do not want to know him. He put his coach in my stable a long time ago. Since then he has been in the cantina. In the Guadalupe. No one has seen him, for he only comes out at night, and then Manuel watches him.’

‘Manuel?’ Azul passed the reins over. ‘Who is he?’

‘Guardaespaldas!’ The oldster took the reins. ‘A bodyguard.’

‘And you do not know who this gringo negro is?’ Azul slid the Winchester clear of the scabbard. ‘You do not know his name?’

‘No one knows his name, señor.’ The old man shook his head. ‘Not Felipe, who owns the cantina, or Rafael, who is our mayor. Not even Vicente, who leads the Rurales. No one. He is rich and smells of death, that is all anyone knows.’

‘I will go and see him,’ said Azul. ‘Take care of my horse.’

‘He is a fine animal,’ said the old man. ‘I hope you’ll come back to ride him again.

Azul nodded and walked towards the plaza.

The Guadalupe covered most of one side of the square, a wide-fronted, low building with a smaller level built up from the original structure. There was a balcony running around all four sides, the upper rooms opening out onto the walkway. Inside, it was cool and dark, the broad windows covered with enough dead insects that not much light got in. The floor was tiled, and down one side there was a long bar.

A bored-looking man with lank, black hair and a dirty white shirt was polishing glasses. Two old men were nursing mugs of pulque down at the far end, and three vaqueros were sipping coffee in the center.

Azul went up to the bar and ordered tequila.

It came out of a stone jug into a clay cup. It was fierce, the heat warming him after the rain. He ordered a second. And asked the barkeep, ‘You have a gringo here?’

The man shrugged. ‘Tal vez. Who wants to know?’

‘The old man at the stable said he is called el gringo negro’ murmured Azul. ‘He is waiting for me.’

‘Oh!’ The barkeep’s face lost its boredom. ‘You are El Aleman.’

‘No.’ Azul’s face got cold and hard. ‘The German is dead.’

He dropped his cup, reaching over the counter to sink his left hand into the loose collar of the man’s shirt. At the same time, he lifted the Winchester, jamming the muzzle under the barkeep’s chin as the man was dragged forwards across the surface of the stained wood.

‘¡Madre de Dios!’ The Mexican’s voice was strangled under the pressure of the carbine. ‘You are the other one.’

‘I guess.’ Azul cocked the Winchester. ‘Where is he?’

Down the bar the three vaqueros set down their coffee and began to move up, towards the half-breed. Azul swung the Winchester round, yanking the barkeep further across the counter as he turned. The man’s shirt tore and came loose from his cotton pants, but enough stayed on his body that Azul was able to drag him helplessly over the counter.

He held the Winchester against his hip and said, ‘Don’t! It’s not your fight.’

The vaqueros looked at one another, each man seeking reassurance. Seeking the glance, the move, that would call for action. Then they all looked at the cold-eyed man pointing the gun towards them and knew it was stupid.

The tallest of them – an older man, with heavy mustaches decorating his swarthy face – lifted his hands, palms upwards, and said: ‘He is upstairs.’

He began to walk towards the door. The others followed.

Azul watched them go, swinging the carbine round to cover them. He waited until he heard the sound of hoofbeats going away from the cantina, then loosed his grip on the barkeep’s shirt.

The man stayed sprawled over the counter, his eyes bloodshot from the constriction of his throat.

Azul asked, ‘Which room?’

The Mexican said ‘Top of the stairs. The first door.’

‘Thanks,’ rasped the half-breed. ‘A lot.’

And brought the stock of the Winchester round in a vicious arc that ended against the Mexican’s jaw. The man’s head swung back, his yellow eyes opening wide for a moment as his teeth were smashed together over his protruding tongue. A thick spurt of blood spread over the bar and his eyes closed as the contusion of the blow spread the bursting blood vessels in a wide, red mark along the side of his face. He slithered backwards across the counter, one arm spilling a row of cups in shattering confusion behind him. Then he slumped clear, disappearing behind the rim of the bar.

Azul went over to the stairs.

They were narrow and dark, the upper level of the cantina shaded by the blinds covering the few windows.

At the head there was a white shape.

Man-sized. With something cold and dark in its hand.

‘Felipe?’

The shape came closer.

‘¿Qué pasar?’

‘Nada,’ said Azul.

And squeezed the trigger of the Winchester as he saw the gun in the Mexican’s hand lower towards him.

The Mexican was holding a Colt. The long-barreled Cavalry model. It exploded simultaneously with the Winchester. But the half-breed’s aim was straighter and truer.

He felt the .45 slug rustle air beside his right temple. Lost the landing under the detonation of the carbine so that he never saw Felipe lift up from behind the bar and catch the bullet in his right eye, the socket exploding inwards to fragment the brain before it tore out through the barkeep’s skull and broke a bottle of good whiskey on the shelf behind the corpse.

What he did see was the man in front of him – the bodyguard called Manuel – go back with a .44-40 Winchester slug ploughing through his belly.

The angle of the stairs was such that the bullet entered under Manuel’s ribcage. Went upwards through his stomach, ripping through the muscle to pierce the softer sac behind. Manuel was lifted off his feet, pain and hydrostatic shock opening his bowels so that a spreading patch of foul-smelling liquid erupted from both sides of his cotton pants.

The bullet continued its awful passage, nicking a lung before it lodged against the right shoulder blade. The Mexican’s mouth opened, emitting a thick spurt of blood that splashed over his tunic, covering the stain of his earlier flooding.

Azul levered the Winchester, firing three more times as he climbed the stairs.

He hit Manuel’s face, the bullet shattering teeth from the gaping mouth in bloody fragments before tearing out through the rear of the neck. Then one slug, fired close, punctured the heart. It burst the ventricle, so that an enormous spurt of blood erupted from the Mexican’s chest, spraying upwards as the man crashed back against the door that opened inwards. The third took the man in the groin, overturning him as the force of it blew his feet away, swinging him round and down as it exited from his waist on a foul-smelling spray of blood and feces.

His feet hit the door and jammed it open while his body bled crimson liquid over the planks.

Azul charged in, turning the Winchester on the figure seated at the table.