Free Scorpion by Kerry Newcomb

her head and bolted to the rescue. But the pack beat her to the stall, and in a matter of seconds the dogs had dragged off several strings of sausages and escaped down the nearest side street, leaving the señora to shake her fists in the air.
    Raúl chuckled. Mariano Rincón appeared at his side. A trace of liquor was on his breath but his hands were steady. He held a cup of pulque, fished a fly from the surface of the milky liquid and tossed it out into the dusty road. Pulque, fermented juice extracted from the agave cactus, was a strong, bitter drink capable of sneaking up on the unwary and leaving a man to bay in the moonlight with the wolves. Rincón drained the contents of his cup, and motioning for a boy to approach, instructed the youth to return the cup to the bar inside. A few centavos was more than enough compensation for the orphan to oblige the mestizo. Rincón fished a couple of peyote buttons from his pocket and held one out to Raúl. The gunman declined.
    “We will not be staying the night in Saltillo,” Raúl said. Mariano Rincón shrugged and shoved the nut-brown roots back in his coat for another day.
    “Where are we going?” the mestizo asked. “Will we need fresh horses?”
    “Three horses. Angel will join us as soon as he can escape Señora Montenez.”
    Rincón chuckled and remained at his friend’s side. The two men watched as seven of Najera’s lancers unloaded as many jars from a string of pack mules they had procured from a farm north of Monterrey. Raúl immediately guessed the contents of the jars when he noticed how the pack train had been slowed by the curious inhabitants of Saltillo, who had crowded around to peer beneath the jar lids at General Najera’s grisly trophies, preserved in oil.
    There had been seven of the hated Texas Rangers leading the column of gringo soldiers, Rincón explained. Najera, to show his contempt for them and to put fear in the hearts of those who might come after, had cut off the heads of the Rangers and placed them in the jars. Fourteen months ago, Najera had given the same treatment to a party of cattle thieves he had caught in the act. The general’s stock had not suffered a theft since.
    The dragoons had made the rounds of the cantinas and brothels surrounding the mercado, displaying the general’s “spoils of war.” Arriving back at the Casa del Noche, Najera’s men prepared to place the jars alongside their counterparts in a niche in a courtyard wall fronting Market Square. Counting the cattle thieves, there were eleven jars now. The general’s collection was mounting. Raúl had to admire Najera’s audacity. Mutilating the corpses of the Texas Rangers was an act akin to hurling a gauntlet in the faces of these border riders who had proved such a nemesis to the Mexican populace. By his actions, Valentin Najera showed he was unafraid. He was even daring the Rangers to come and avenge themselves. Indeed, Valentin Najera looked forward to such a visit. After all, jars were plentiful in Saltillo, and the courtyard of the Casa del Noche had space to spare.

Chapter Seven
    V ENTANA, TRUE TO ITS name, was a window onto the stark, vast beauty of the Sierra Oriental, the east arm of the Sierra Madre, eight hundred miles of wooded ridges and wind-scoured peaks running from northwest to southeast. The hacienda was a single-storied adobe structure whose roof was topped by a wall tall enough for several men to hide behind and, if need be, fire down at any attackers. The main house, the barn and corral, the stone bunkhouse, and the low wall that formed a square around the site, dominated the center of a gap in a grass-covered ridge that rose like a barrier four hundred feet from the valley floor. Here was the only approach to the Orientals for many miles. Don Sebastien’s land grant encompassed the entire valley, spanning the gap and reaching all the way to the cordilleras, more than thirty miles away. Quintero’s cattle, bearing a double slash Q brand, should