Scattered clouds along the horizon became torn shreds of golden fire. The sky turned from powder blue to burnt umber, and stars began to blink on the edge of night high up in the darkening stratosphere. The bleached white walls of Macready’s compound were painted red by the dying sun as Grant pulled the hearse up to the gates. The cowboy looked shamefaced in the passenger seat. The other fella had been left at Sixto’s. Grant didn’t need both of them to prove his point. He sounded the horn, then waited. Thirty seconds later, the gates swung open and Grant drove into the courtyard. The hacienda looked even more like the Alamo in the evening light. Flickering torches burned from brackets on the walls. More for effect than for light, Grant reckoned. Macready seemed to like playing with the Western image. There was a lot of activity in front of the garages and barrack block. Men packing equipment into canvas bags and strip-cleaning their weapons on blankets spread across the porch.
