Chancho shuffled toward the only window in the study and found it closed like the rest of them. He drew the curtains shut after staring into the empty street. The abandoned houses still felt like props in a film. Abortively, he pondered his role in the story.

Conscious of being the lone actor on stage, he placed the battery-powered lamp under an overturned wicker wastebasket before switching it on. A subdued glow swelled within the room, creating shadows and pushing darkness into the corners. His breath shone like crystalline clouds in the dim light.

Shivering, he rubbed his arms beneath his serape. The room was too tidy. Who cleans their study before an emergency evacuation? Nothing had been in the wastebasket either.

He lowered his gaze to the surface of the desk. Much of it remained covered in a thin layer of dust, save a ragged swath sweeping from one side to the other. On the far end, a rectangular shape devoid of dust had been disrupted by the irregular path—possibly a hand brushing across the surface.

Chancho closed his eyes. He imagined groping for an object, looking for something in the dark. But what had the person found? What had been resting on the edge of the desk? A book? He scanned the bookshelf for a gap in the neatly arranged spines, but didn’t find any clear evidence. What would that prove anyway?

He swiveled the chair from side to side before taking a seat. Another thought occurred to him, and he bent to inspect the floor beside the desk. Coming up empty at first, his eyes seized on a small object—an ink pen. He picked it up, tapped it on the surface of the desk. A journal.

Before his mind could carry the thought further, a faint scratching pricked his ears. He froze, holding his breath. The sound seemed omnipresent, so slight it could be drifting on the wind from miles away. Or it could be coming from directly beneath his feet. He peered at the floorboards and strained his ears. It came again, like teeth or fingernails scraping a wooden surface.

It has to be mice. He clutched the thought as a drowning man would a lifesaver. But his body continued to act of its own volition. He scooted the chair back and sank noiselessly to his knees. For a long moment it stopped. Then again, a muffled scratching—from beneath the floor—accompanied by tiny vibrations in the wood. With each shudder no bigger than the pulse of his heart, he’d assumed them one in the same. Digging?

As he lowered his ear to the floor, gunfire erupted from outside. Jolting upwards, he slammed his head into the underside of the desk and toppled backwards into the chair. He clutched his pistol. Bounding from the chair, he pressed himself against the wall and threw back the curtain.

Two more shots thundered from across the street. As he peered into the darkness, a handful of human shapes scattered—one in his direction. He bolted for the front door, stumbling over the sofa. Catching the knob enough to release it, he burst through the opening and rolled onto the porch, pistol drawn.

A shadow crouching at the base of the porch flinched before spinning in his direction. A dull glint appeared at the end of an extended arm. Chancho squeezed the trigger. Dual explosions battered the porch ceiling as a pinch gripped his left shoulder. The shadow beyond his barrel pitched forward, smacking its forehead on the porch and disappearing.

He edged toward where he’d last seen it.

“What de devil is going on out here?” Angelo braced himself against the door jam, his pistol aimed at nothing but the darkness beyond.

Chancho snatched a quick peek over the front edge of the porch. The human shadow lay motionless. “I don’t know, mi amigo, but—”

Brick fragments ricocheted over their heads as two more gunshots rolled across the blanket of night.

Starr and Angelo lunged forward, each offering Chancho a hand. Together they yanked him inside and slammed the door. Spreading out, they took different windows and watched for signs of movement, anything to gain a clue as to what was carrying on.

“Chloe, watch the back!”

“On it.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and the house fell silent, save their heavy breathing. Chancho watched the porch and the small section of road he could see from his vantage, but nothing moved. After he began to stiffen and chill from drying sweat, he broke the silence. “Anything, mis amigos?”

“Nothing.”

Chloe returned from the back door. “Not a peep.”

Starr stretched his leg tenderly. “What do you reckon that was all about?”

“Vezzoni, the bastard.” Angelo turned toward Chancho. “I hope you gave him a brain window.”

Chancho shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone’s at the base of the porch, but I don’t think it’s Vezzoni.”

Chloe sat on the sofa. “How did it start?”

“No sé.”

“You weren’t awake?”

“I was awake. But the shooting…” Chancho remembered the men scattering from across the street. “It wasn’t at us.”

“I beg to differ,” Angelo interrupted.

“Not at first. When I got to the window I saw men scattering from gunfire,” he brushed the curtain out of the way, “coming from that house.”

Chloe exclaimed, “Someone’s still living there?”

Chancho shrugged, wincing at the wound to his shoulder. “Is everyone alright? I mean, was anyone shot? Because I think I might have been.”

“Might? You Mexicans must be a tough sort.” Angelo attempted to inspect the wound in the dark. “I cannot say for sure, but it looks like just a scratch.”

“Yeah,” Starr sat stiffly. “I think I have a bullet in my leg.”

“This is a fine bunch.” Chloe stood. “For goodness sake, let’s get some light in here before someone bleeds to death from an ‘I think so.’ Where’s the lamp?”

“Ah, I left it in the study.”

“The study?” Starr tried to stand, but Chloe shoved him back into his chair.

“I’ll get it.” She moved carefully toward the darkened doorway.

Chancho met her at the entrance. “I couldn’t sleep. Here,” He held her by the shoulders as he entered in front of her. “I left it on the floor, but it should still be on.”

Chloe tutted. “Upscale neighborhoods ain’t what they used to be.”

“Not much of a first date, eh señorita.” Crouching at the base of the desk, he suddenly remembered the scratching from before the shootout. He flipped the wastebasket and slapped the lamp lightly in the palm of his hand, trying the switch in both directions. Nothing. “Lo siento, but I’m afraid it’s dead.”

Each of them accumulated a few hours’ worth of sleep in fits and spurts. Chancho had slept with his back against the front door until around four in the morning. He figured he’d been awake for almost two hours when the first streaks of day shone through the slit in the curtains.

Motionless, he watched the slice of light intensify and shift along the back of the sofa where Chloe’s regular breathing indicated she still slept. He’d awoken to a dream of blood spattering from a shadowy man’s shoulder, a toothy grimace slashed across the man’s face, eyes piercing into his own.

It’d been a few years since he’d shot a man, much less killed one. He’d never killed anyone that close, and the darkness left more details to his imagination. The worst part had been not knowing. He still didn’t have the slightest idea who the man was, or even why they were trying to kill each other. Both had tried.

Chloe shifted in her sleep, distracting him from all but the question, why? They were trespassing, but that was hardly a killing offense, unless there was something important to hide. Someone had been watching them. But someone else had been watching the people watching them. Chancho could picture only one individual so paranoid and shifty. The rinche.

The thought left him dizzier than before. Nothing made sense, but day had come. Maybe mother sun would bring answers along with the new day.

“Chancho?” Chloe peeked over the back of the sofa.

“Buenos días, señorita.” He pushed against the closed door and rose to his feet.

“Did you sleep?”

“Un poco.”

She shook her head, but kept smiling. “I never thought the sun would come up.”

“I know the feeling.” He offered her a hand. “Come. Let’s wake the others and get some answers.”

“I’m awake.” Starr limped from the bedroom, Angelo right behind him.

“Yup. We have just been awaiting for you sleepy heads to stir.”

Outside, the sun lay beneath the horizon. Its glow bathed the eastern sky in living fire—tongues of orange and red and purple licking the bellies of stubborn cloud cover. Chancho hesitated on the porch for a moment before striding quickly into the street. Only then did he turn to see Starr inspecting the body he’d left in its static condition hours earlier.

Angelo trudged further down the sidewalk, keeping his eyes on the menacing windows of the house across the way for a full minute. Finally, he jogged south to check on his donkeys. Chloe joined Chancho’s side, her favorite knife in her hand. He hoped she would not need to use it.

“Just in case.” She gave him a peck on the cheek before continuing across the street.

Chancho followed her to the porch where he’d seen the shooting begin. A pool of drying blood complete with drag trail indicated at least two had died in the shooting. And they weren’t even inside the fence yet.

The drag marks led into the house. Chancho clutched the grip of his pistol, took a deep breath and drew it. With two quick strides he raised his boot, smashing the latch and sending the door careening into the wall behind it.

He and Chloe squeezed through the opening side by side and moved steadily through every room front to back, including a small upstairs.

“Nothing.” Chloe met him back in the living room.

“No one,” Chancho corrected as he stooped to pick up a shell casing. He was relieved it was a .35 rifle casing and not a .45 pistol.

“And the recipient?”

Chancho had forgotten about the blood. The trail led straight to the entryway closet. Together they approached and threw open the door.

“Why would they drag one of their own from the porch to leave him in the closet?”

Chancho shook his head. “He wasn’t one of their own.”

“Whose was he?”

“Knock, knock.” Starr skirted the blood on the porch and stuck his head inside. “Don’t shoot.”

“No worries, mi amigo. Just us.”

“One more, huh? So this is what you were talking about last night.” He stretched his open hand toward Chancho. “Found these in the front yard, all six in a heap like they’d been dumped by someone shooting off the porch.”

Chancho grudgingly accepted the casings—.45’s. He shook his head. “That’s where he stopped to reload.” He handed Starr the .35. “We found this.”

“Two gunmen?”

“So it would seem.” Chancho led them outside into the open air. He couldn’t spend another second inside the empty homes.

“The guy you shot was definitely Company. He had TPE scrip in his pocket.” Starr held out his other hand.

Chancho nodded. “The Company knows we’re here, but gets jumped by someone else before they can move in.”

“Maybe we were an innocent third party. You know, wrong place, wrong time?” Chloe added optimistically.

Chancho would have liked to believe it. “No. I think our presence instigated this.” He shifted his gaze up one end of the street and down the other. “New York Hill wasn’t as abandoned as we thought.”

“The question is what do we do now?” Chloe sheathed her knife. “We can’t exactly sneak in anymore.”

“Two men are dead. That’s gonna have consequences.” Starr shifted his weight from his injured leg.

Chancho nodded. “Si, amigos. And I have a feeling the consequences are only going to pile up. But I’m afraid we must part ways.”

“What?” Starr and Chloe responded simultaneously.

Chancho indicated Starr’s wounded leg. “You are still bleeding, and last time I checked, bullets do not remove themselves.” During his nearly sleepless night he’d continued to ponder the missing journal and Starr’s attempts to defend TPE when Mrs. Marcon had indicted them. He wanted a chance to look around without his political partner.

“I could have removed it last night, if you would have let me.”

“The slug is preventing further blood loss—”

“The door jamb nearly stopped it.”

 “And I think there could be wood fragments with it,” Chancho continued. “Trust me, mi amigo, this is a wound better not mended in the field. You could take a donkey back to Gordon and get it dressed properly by noon.”

Starr glared at him. “And what are you two gonna do?”

Chancho shrugged. “Oh, maybe some sightseeing, necking, that sort of thing. Nothing special.”

Chloe punched him in the arm.