Chapter 7

Around us the ranch hands cheer us on. Grabbing fistfuls of dust, I whirl and pounce on Jonesy as he tries to sit up. One of my fists catches him under the jaw; the other pounds his temple and sends him reeling back. His hands flail at my shirt, seeking purchase, but I hit him again, knocking him away, and I’d go at him again if someone behind me doesn’t catch my wrist.

I glare over my shoulder at Paco, whose pants are still unbuttoned at the crotch. “Ease up a little, pibe,” he mutters. “Chavez is coming, si?”

Behind Paco, I see our foreman hurrying over from the stables and I let myself be hauled to my feet. Someone helps Jonesy stand, too. By the time Chavez reaches us, winded and panting, we’re both standing like truant boys, hands behind our backs, heads down, ready for punishment.

“Madre di Dios,” Chavez gasps. “What’s worth fighting over this damn early, anyway? Nat?”