He stood smoking a cigarette, watching the bearded Pesquiera and the squat, strong Gabilondo. Crests of snow topped the mountains. On the Rio Sonora below, the capital city of Ures lay dusty and quiet. “Once it was Gandara’s capital,” Pesquiera said. “Now it is ours, eh, Hilario?” “Sí,” Gabilondo murmured. His evil eyes were slitted. Dark, stiff-backed, he stood looking down through the brush. Giron watched the two of them and felt in his heart certain misgivings. He stood in a mesquite’s shadow with his horse’s reins in one hand and the other arm braced against a limb of a tree. Clouds like unpicked cotton balls speckled the sky. It was a gentle slope down toward the town, and in the brush below, silent shadows moved—an army of shadows stealing forward upon the unsuspecting capital. Gandara himself had already abandoned the palace. Rumors floated about: Gandara had retreated to the Sierra Madres with the Yaqui Indians to make war on Pesquiera from that stronghold; Gandara had fled to Mexico City to plead with the government for soldiers and aid; Gandara had made his escape by sea to South America; Gandara was dead.
