Hector Camacho leaned his shoulder against the door frame of his adobe cottage. His head throbbed from his night of drinking. He watched the caravan of empty wagons and dusty riders arrive at the rancho. The two gringos rode by on horseback, their rifles in hand, the muzzles pointed skyward, the buttstocks resting on their legs. Hector"s heart skipped a beat when Crow turned his head and stared him in the eye. Before Hector could respond, the procession had passed on. "Bastardo," Hector thought. "It will be a pleasure to end your bravata (bravado)."
As the carts and the men continued across the yard, the Batistas and the Mountain Men dismounted in front of the hacienda. Carmen and Francisca were there to greet them.
“Welcome home!” Carmen greeted her husband and son with an affectionate
