The Legend of El Duque by J. R. Roberts

you,” Mano said. “I mean, over the years, he’s talked about you.”
    â€œHe has?”
    â€œIs it all true?”
    â€œSince I don’t know what he told you, I can’t answer that question.”
    Mano studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “I won’t tell you.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI think maybe I will find out during this ride.”
    â€œYou might at that.” Clint looked behind him.
    â€œAre we being followed?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd that bothers you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe word went out that I was carrying a large sum of money,” Clint said. “I can’t believe that nobody is going to try to take it.”
    â€œThen if they’re not following us, where are they?” Mano asked.
    Clint pointed ahead of them.
    â€œOut there maybe.”
    â€œIn front of us?”
    â€œBest way not to be spotted following someone is to be ahead of them.”
    Mano reined his horse in. Clint rode a few feet on before stopping and looking back.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œIt is very easy to get lost in Mexico,” Mano said. “Especially if you are a gringo.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œIf they are out there,” Mano said, pointing south, “we should go there”—he pointed west—“or there”—he pointed east. “Let them try to find us, then.”
    â€œLead the way,” Clint said. “You’re the guide.”
    Mano turned them west.
    â€œIf the word is out that you have a lot of money,” Mano said, “then there are probably men on this side of the border looking for you, too.”
    â€œYou’re probably right,” Clint said. “And they won’t be getting lost, will they?”
    They rode until dusk, avoiding the few small towns they came within shouting distance of.
    â€œShould we make a fire?” Mano asked.
    Clint thought a moment, decided in favor of it—mostly because he wanted coffee. But also because a fire out here wouldn’t necessarily belong to them. There had to be other people setting up camp.
    Clint built a fire, prepared coffee and beans, then passed Mano a plate and a tin mug.
    â€œHijo de un cabron!”
Mano swore, after sipping the coffee.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œThat part of my father’s tales is right,” Mano said. “Your trail coffee is strong.”
    â€œThe way I like it.”
    Mano put the mug down between his feet, scooped some beans into his mouth with a wooden spoon.
    â€œHe also said you were a great trail cook,” Mano said, “and if you ever wanted to hang up your gun, you could run a fine chuck wagon.”
    â€œNot with the trail drives drying up,” Clint said.
    â€œMy father would hire you,” Mano said. “We still drive cattle down here.”
    â€œNo thanks,” Clint said. “For as many men who like a cook’s food, there are that many who don’t. You can’t please everyone.”
    â€œWell . . . I like these beans,” Mano said, holding the plate out to Clint. “More, please.”

EIGHTEEN
    Carlos Montero pulled on his boots and looked over his shoulder at Angelina Sandoval, lying naked on the bed. Her skin was dappled with perspiration.
    â€œWhere does he want you to go?” she asked.
    â€œYou should know.”
    â€œHe does not discuss his business with me,” she said. “I am only his wife.”
    â€œMexico City,” he said. “To the bank there.”
    â€œWhy you?”
    â€œI am the only one he trusts to carry money,” Montero said.
    â€œThat must make you very proud.”
    He stood up, grabbed his gun belt, and strapped it on.
    â€œIt did once. But he still treats me like just another vaquero.”
    She sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees.
    â€œAnd you want to show him you are more, right?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWell, now is