But first he had to show what he was made of here, in Santa Rosa. It had been a good idea, this raid to search for weapons and effectively disarm the town. A tour of Main Street had revealed the hardware store to be their only target; they had found no gunsmith's shop, no sporting goods emporium with rifles in the window. If the town had any guns on sale at all, they would be here, and Esteban would have the shop secured in a few more moments.
He was not concerned about resistance from the local peasants. Granted, they were superior in numbers, and many of them would undoubtedly have arms at home. Rodriguez scanned the weathered, faded storefronts, and he sensed that they would offer no resistance as a group. Confronted with a team of tough, professional assassins, armed with automatic weapons, Santa Rosa's citizens would slink off to hide until the danger passed. Except, Rodriguez thought, this time Rivera might not let them hide.
The hardware store was cooler than the street, but only by a few degrees. An ancient cooler labored on the roof, but it was in a losing battle with the Arizona sun. Rodriguez waited for the door to close behind him, feeling Julio and Ismael like two shadows at his back, and scanned the store for any sign of weapons on display. He found them easily, before he even saw the store's proprietor emerging from a nearby aisle, a feather duster in his hand. Four shotguns, half a dozen rifles, neatly racked and well tended, with ammunition boxes shelved on either side. To Esteban, it was the mother lode.
"Can I help you gents?"
"We're interested in guns," he told the owner, noticing a flicker of concern behind the man's washed-out eyes.
"Yes sir, I've got 'em," he replied, with just a trace of hesitancy in his voice. "What were you looking for, exac'ly?"
Esteban brushed past him, moved to stand before the rack of long guns, studying the polished barrels, hand-rubbed wooden stocks. Three 12-gauge shotguns and a 20-gauge, three .22s, a lever-action .33, and two sporting rifles, probably ought-sixes, both with telescopic sights. It wasn't much to stock an army, but he would feel better knowing that these weapons were in friendly hands.
"We'll take them all," he said.
The merchant could not find his voice at first. He glanced from Esteban to his companions, back again, attempting to decide if the man was playing with him, joking. "That's a decent piece of cash," he said at last.
Esteban shrugged. He saw no point in mentioning that he did not intend to pay for anything. "We'll also take your ammunition."
"All of it?" Schultz squinted at Rodriguez, as if by screwing up his face he might somehow improve his hearing.
"Yes."
"Some of it doesn't fit these guns. I got some .38s in there, .223s, .410s, a few more odds 'n' ends."
"We'll take it all," Rodriguez repeated patiently, putting on a plastic smile.
"Well, shoot, I reckon you know what you need." He led them back in the direction of the register. "If you'd be kind enough to show me some I.D., I'll ring that up for you right now and we can see you on your way."
"A driver's license oughta do it," he replied. "You know how Uncle Sam can't get along without his paperwork."
"Of course." Esteban slid a hand inside his nylon jacket, hauled the Colt Commander out and aimed it at the man's face. He thumbed the hammer back and smiled across the open sights. "Will this be good enough?" he asked.
Schultz stared at Esteban, his pistol, the other gunmen. He slowly raised his hands to shoulder-height, then made a sudden lunge for something on a shelf beneath the register. Esteban could have killed him easily, but it would have been noisy and unnecessary. Lashing out, he whipped the automatic's muzzle across the man's skull with enough force to open his scalp. The thin man staggered, slumped against a shelf supporting cans of motor oil, which tipped and broke away beneath his weight.
Rodriguez placed one hand upon the counter, vaulted it with ease and landed in a crouch beside his victim. The man was stunned but conscious, cursing breathlessly and struggling to rise, his progress hampered by the cans of oil that rolled beneath him every time he made a move. Rodriguez kicked him in the ribs to slow him down, and then again, because it felt good. Finishing the job, he slashed his .45 across the balding, unprotected skull once more and stepped back satisfied. Before rejoining Julio and Ismael, he retrieved a .38 revolver from the shelf beneath the register and tucked it in the waistband of his slacks.
Rivera would be pleased with their achievement. They had not disarmed the town by any stretch of the imagination, but in one bold stroke they had eliminated a cache of weapons that the citizens could have drawn upon in their hour of need. A few more moments were required to stow the arms and ammunition in their trunk, and then they could rejoin the column waiting north of Santa Rosa.
Smiling to himself, Rodriguez missed the woman's entry through an open doorway on his left. When she saw her fallen husband, she screamed. Rodriguez was already rushing toward her, gaining, when Ismael drew his nickel-plated .32 and put a bullet through the open oval of her lips. The little gun's report was understated, probably inaudible outside, but the projectile's impact was dramatic and completely final. Lifted off her feet, the woman struck a bank of shelves, rebounded like a rag doll, bonelessly crumpled to the floor.
Rodriguez did not waste a glance on the gunman, knowing he would have to punish Ismael if he saw his grinning face. The woman's life meant nothing — less than nothing — to Esteban, but a pistolero was supposed to follow orders. When they started killing on their own initiative, control was jeopardized, a precedent for independent thought established. He would have to nip it in the bud.
Already stalking toward the Main Street exit, Esteban tossed orders back across his shoulder. "Kill the other gringo, quietly, and get the weapons loaded. I will tell Luis what has happened."
In his heart, he knew Rivera would not mind the deaths of two more Anglos. They were nothing to him, and he would be pleased to hear about the guns. So far, the siege of Santa Rosa had been carried off without a hitch.
Amy Schultz was late, but she was certain that her parents would not mind. They made her work for spending money through the summer, but they never treated her like an employee, never nagged her if she was a little late, or left a little early, for a date with Rick. In fact, he was the reason for her tardiness; she had been trying to call him all morning, but there was no answer at home, no answer at the service station. That was strange: Bud Stancell never closed on weekdays, and he never had so many customers that neither he nor Rick would not hear the telephone.
If they had lived in Tucson or in Phoenix Amy might have worried, but in Santa Rosa, "trouble" meant a blow-out on the way to work, or something equally mundane. It was unusual that no one at the station would pick up the phone, but it was not mysterious. Most likely they were in back somewhere, or Rick had gone for lunch and Bud was tied up with a customer. No big deal.
She was looking forward to their date that night, their time alone together at the Ajo drive-in. Thinking of Rick's kiss, his strong, insistent hands, made Amy tingle with excitement, but she knew that she could not give in. Not yet. But soon, perhaps.