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“He’s dead. That settles it. Get up, Pete. We got us a visit to make at the bank.”

Pete pushed himself up from the table, blinking and shaking the molasses out of his head. He winced at each movement, eyes down to slits. “Gotta get a drink to fasten my head back on.”

The Mexican woman was behind the bar, looking even worse than she had the night before. She jerked her head in question as Quantro dropped a silver dollar on the plank.

“Whiskey, comprendo?” He wagged two fingers, then pointed to himself and Pete.

“Whiskey? Ninguino, no.” She waggled her head emphatically. “Tequila, si, whiskey, no.”

“We had a bottle last night,” Pete said edgily. He pointed to the empty on the table.

“Hombre, suyo compadre, the man your friend.” She mimed a man peeking down the front of her dress.

Pete couldn’t work it out. “What in hell’s she talking about?”

“She says Upton brought the whiskey in with him. That proves it.” He looked at the woman again. “Dos, two, tequilas.” She poured two shots. It went down in one gulp, burning like a river of molten lava, but it seemed to do some good.

“The bank,” Quantro said, stalking back to the table to pick up his Winchester.

It was past opening time but there weren’t many customers.

Judging by the state of most of the people out on the street, Quantro supposed they didn’t have enough money left over from staying alive to entrust to the bank. He went directly to the counter. “The manager, pronto.”

The clerk looked at Quantro. He saw a raw-eyed, grizzle-jawed man with long blond hair hanging lankly at his shoulders. In his hands was a rifle that looked as though it had been used frequently. It looked like a hold-up. He blinked, frightened, eyes like bulls eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Si, Señor, I will fetch.” He scurried away through a door at the rear. When he returned it was with a tall, thin man who had a hooknose and slicked-back hair. He strode importantly toward them, the pants of his baggy pinstripe suit flapping around his legs. In his hand was a gun. This one wasn’t frightened. He stopped at the counter, the gun resting squarely at Quantro’s stomach, ready to do business. When the clerk hovered nervously, he waved him away.

“Yes, gentlemen? Can I be of service?” There was barely a trace of native Mexican in his voice.

“For openers you can put down the gun,” Quantro said.

The manager looked down at his pistol as though unaware it had been there in his hand all the time. He motioned with it to Quantro’s rifle. “Only if you return the compliment.”

Quantro put the Winchester on the counter. The manager smiled and holstered his pistol, inside his jacket. No wonder the suit’s baggy, Quantro thought, I wonder what he’s got inside those pants. A shotgun?

“We’re from the Cananea Copper Company. We’re here to pick up the silver shipment.”

The manager gave little away. “How am I to know that? You come in here like bandits, waving guns and terrorizing my staff.”

“You’d better believe it,” Quantro said. “We came into town with a man called Upton. He carried the authority to pick it up.”

“Yes?”

Quantro sighed. “Look, as soon as I find out what’s happened here, I’m going to go over to the telegraph office and notify Mr. William Green that his shipment of silver to pay the miners has been stolen by a certain Mr. Upton. If you don’t believe we’re from the company, you can come over yourself and check us out. A Mr. Harley in Cananea will verify who we are. My name is Quantro and this is Mr. Wiltshire. We’re personal guards to Mr. Harley.”

The manager studied Quantro for a moment, then decided he was genuine. “In that case you are a little late. The shipment was loaded at dawn this morning. I supervised it myself. They will be well away by now.”

“That’s what we figured. You saw a note of authority?”

“Yes. Mr. Upton carried it.” The manager shrugged. “He has been here several times before.”

“I bet he has. How many men were there?”

“Four.”

“Transport? How was