“We come in peace,” he said quietly.
The man with the gun hawked and spat, then half-raised his weapon.
“Gold?” he said hoarsely.
“Only lead,” Don Ambrosio said in a quiet voice. He loosened the carbine that was holstered to his saddle with his left hand, his right hand resting on the pommel of his saddle. The bandit pointed his own gun in response.
With a motion too swift to follow the Don pulled the Colt.44 from his waistband and fired three quick shots.
The armed man was down, as was the second man. The third staggered, wounded, turned to flee. A fourth shot dropped him by the others.
“We must move quickly now,” Miguel said, kicking his mule forward. “If there are others close by, they will have heard the shots.”
“Who are they? Or perhaps, more correctly, who were they?”
“It does not matter. Hungry men with guns fill this poor land. We have had too many revolutions and rebellions, too much killing. Now, please, we must ride.”
“Take this,” Don Ambrosio said, pulling out the carbine, turning and throwing it to him. “I’ll go first.” He reloaded the pistol as he rode. “I’ll watch the path ahead — you watch the jungle on the side.”
If there were other bandits hiding in the undergrowth they wisely kept their distance. A few miles later the track finally emerged from the forest and passed by the corn fields of a small village. Don Ambrosio put his pistol away and Miguel once more led the way. But he still carried the carbine. Years of war, revolution and invasion had left the countryside well populated with bandits. And now there were others — who were far more of a threat than bandits. Don Ambrosio, riding high on his horse, could see further along the path.
“Dust!” he called out. “A lot of it up ahead.”
They reined up, looked around for cover. There was little of it here on the coastal plain.
“We can’t go back — so we must go ahead. Those trees ahead,” Don Ambrosio said, pointing to a small grove close to the beaten trail. “We must get there before they do.”
He galloped ahead. The donkeys followed protesting loudly when Miguel goaded them cruelly with his stick. The sound of marching feet could now be clearly heard in the distance as they crashed through the underbrush between the trees. Moments after they had found cover the first of the blue-clad soldiers came into sight.
Dusty, hot and weary, they nevertheless marched steadily on, an officer on horseback leading them. Muskets on their shoulders, heavy packs on their backs. The invaders.
The French.
Concealed by the trees and undergrowth the two men watched the long column march by. Even when this main body of soldiers had passed, they remained under cover in case there were stragglers. And indeed there were, a limping band being urged on hoarsely by a sergeant. Only when the track was completely clear did they continue with their journey.
It was almost dark when they entered the cobbled streets of Vera Cruz. Don Ambrosio led the way now through the narrow alleys, avoiding the main streets and the crowded squares. The only French they saw were a few soldiers drinking outside a pulqueria, too drunk to even notice them. They passed a crowded street market rich with the scent of freshly ground spices and chilies. Most of the stalls were closing up for the night, though some Indian women still sat in rows against the walls, offering handfuls of fresh limes for sale. It was dark when they came out of the back streets and onto the waterfront. There was just enough light from the full moon for Don Ambrosio to find his way to a courtyard filled with nets and cordage. A fat man stood on a ladder there and was reaching up to light a lantern, grunting with the effort, tottering precariously on his wooden leg. The wick caught and he blew the match out, turned to look at the newcomers when the Don called out a greeting.
“Good evening, Pablocito. We’ve come a long way and are very tired.”
“Don Ambrosio!” He climbed down the ladder, stumped over and threw his arms around him in a warm abrazo, for they were old friends. “Come inside and we will drink some mezcal, the very best from the city of Tequila. Leave your animals, my men will take care of them.”
“I will go with them,” Miguel said. Don Ambrosio untied his wrapped bedroll from the horse.
“You will take good care of Rocinante while I am away,” he said.
“As always. Do you know when you will return?”
“Not yet. I will let Pablo know if I can, and he can get a message to you in your village.”
Pablo took the bedroll from him and led the way into the building.
Inside the well-lit kitchen Pablo opened a cabinet and took out a bottle, slammed it down and pushed forward the cut limes and the bowl of salt. Don Ambrosio nodded happily and reached for a glass. Put the salt on the web between thumb and index finger; licked the salt and then in a quick movement emptied the glass of mezcal. Bit the lime and sucked on it so that all three blended deliciously in the mouth. Derecho. The only way to drink the fiery maguey spirit.
Don Ambrosio smacked his lips with pleasure and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That is wonderful. Now tell me, it is most important — is the ship here yet?”
“Not only here but it has been waiting for three days now. I have talked with them but they will not listen. They say that they cannot stay in port any longer. The captain says they must leave at dawn.”
Don Ambrosio sprang to his feet, unconsciously touching the book in his pocket to be sure it was safe. “Then I must go now.”