Especially for Hawker, who was no horseman. Twice on the narrow dirt road to Williams’s estate fast trucks had passed them but paid them no mind. The horses were disguises in and of themselves. To people in the trucks the twelve men on horseback probably just looked like wranglers from Ranch #4. Fortunately they couldn’t see what the riders were carrying in their saddlebags and beneath the rolled tarps. Hawker wore a black cotton watch sweater, jeans, and worn Nike running shoes. His face and hands still hurt from the fights he had had the night before. Evans had found him a gray, weathered cowboy hat with a rattlesnake band. The knapsack stuffed with ordnance was strapped to the back of the broad-chested Arabian he rode. When the guardhouse and high adobe fence came into view, they pulled into tighter formation, two abreast. Three hundred yards from the guardhouse, the bright searchlight flashed on. Hawker shielded his eyes and looked at Evans. “You still insist on trying to serve that damn warrant?”
