Shortly after the peyote fiasco, we reached a little town called Blazer's Mill. Chavez and I got off our horses to refill our canteens in a well. I washed off my face and hands as best I could, then filled my canteen.
"So how are you holding up?" Chavez asked me.
"I'm fine." I shrugged, drying my face on my bandanna.
"You don't look very well," said Chavez.
"I'm just a little tired," I said.
"I'm still worried about you," he said.
"How are you doing?" I asked. He'd been a lot quieter than usual for days, which told me something was bothering him.
Chavez didn't answer; another sign that he was upset. I was about to ask him what was wrong when Billy, Dick, Doc, Dirty Steve, and Charley approached us. They seemed exhausted; even Billy looked like a whipped pup. Dick tossed a glance at the adobe building behind us, which (judging by the smell coming out of it) was a cantina.
"Richard, can we please go inside?" asked Doc.
"No," Dick said firmly. "Look, I know we could use a decent meal, but we got everybody in the territory looking for us. It'd be too risky."
"Ain't nobody else here," said Charley, pointing to the vacant hitching post beside the cantina.
"Besides, if I know Murphy's jackasses the way I think I do, they'll be halfway to Old Mexico before they realize they're ridin' a false trail," I pointed out.
"So that's where the hell you disappeared to yesterday," said Dick. "What were you thinking, Serena? Making a move like that is suicidal. You ain't got the sense God gave a mule."
Chavez went for his knife handle. "Don't talk about her that way. Going off on her own may have been dangerous, but she'll never do it again." He turned to me. "Will you?"
I shook my head, saying I learned my lesson. Dick replied that he still wasn't going to let me out of his sight.
"Can't we just talk this out over supper?" said Doc, who hadn't shut up for a long time about how hungry he was.
Dick relented and ordered us all to wash up. It was decided that Dirty Steve would eat outside so he could keep a lookout. We seated ourselves around the tiny table in the cantina, where the special of the day was chicken. I chuckled, remembering Dirty Steve's peyote vision. Dick bowed his head and began to say grace.
"Lord, forgive us for our trespasses, our misguidance by heathen religions." He eyed Chavez, who proceeded to kick Dick under the table. Dick didn't seem to notice and continued the prayer. "Please help guide us in doin' the right thing."
Billy, thinking the prayer was over, eagerly picked up his fork, but Dick kept praying. Billy dropped his fork and glanced longingly at the chicken. "Please, Dick, it's gettin' cold," he begged.
Dick didn't look up, so Billy went for his gun. Dick snapped out of his trance and drew his. In a flash, both were pointing their weapons at the other's heart. Chavez reached between them and started to carve the chicken. He speared a very large piece with the tip of his knife and fed it to me.
"I coulda killed ya, Dick." said Billy, holding his gun steady. "But I'm too hungry to kill you; I wanna eat."
"When we finish this meal, we'll step out in the yard and see who has the right to run this group of regulators," Dick said fiercely.
"Will you two quit bickering?" I asked wearily.
Dirty Steve burst in, saying there was someone headed our way. The visitor turned out to be Buckshot Roberts, a bounty hunter who, in Charley's words "killed more people than smallpox." Billy was eager to fight him, but cursed Buckshot's timing.
We went outside. Roberts looked for all the world like a harmless old man. But we all knew better. Dick tried to talk Roberts into giving himself up, seeing as we had a warrant for him. But Roberts intended to collect the bounty placed on our heads.
"Let's dance," he said, pumping his shotgun.
We ran like hell toward the woodpile. Someone screamed behind us. It was Chavez. Damn, it was personal now. Nobody shoots a friend of mine and gets away with it. I fired toward Roberts; a bullet pierced my arm. I went down, falling between Chavez and Doc, who'd been shot in the hand. Chavez had been hit in the leg, but he seemed okay.
"You missed, you little sons of bitches and dancehall whore!" Roberts taunted us.
"Billy, go in the outhouse and cut Roberts in half," said Dick. Billy looked disbelieving that Dick actually wanted him to kill someone. "I'm darin' you." Dick added.
Billy would never back down from a dare, so he started to leave. A gunshot was heard, then Billy crawled back behind the woodpile.
"Screw that!" he panted.
Roberts stopped shooting at us, so Dick left to check it out. Gunshots erupted. I was on the ground, so I couldn't see what happened, but I knew what had. Roberts had killed Dick. Charley, the youngest of us, went to pieces.
"What are we gonna do?" he howled. "Dick just got his guts blown out, and he's our foreman."
Doc, with his gift for stating the obvious said, "We better get the hell out of here."
He and I supported Chavez and helped him onto Sparks Flying. Billy took over as foreman, riding ahead of us.