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They followed, staying with the Rio Grande south past the sprawling settlement of Albuquerque and on to the tiny ranchos of Belen. Sabina, Lumitar and Parida, Fra Cristobal and Valverde. Told they had only to follow the well-beaten path south, farther still, on across the Gadsden Purchase, where they would come to the old town of El Paso. The place crawled with army and border profiteers, every man suspicious of all whom he had not bought with his money.

Still, by simply watching the constant activity along the road heading south, they had learned enough to know that Chihuahua was where they needed next to go. They were lured to that great center of commerce, that hub of riches from which manifold trade routes radiated like the spokes on the wheels of the crude carretas that carried forth all that was shiny and new, glittering and painted, hauling back the wealth of distant ports.

“You ain’t got shit for a chance to find nobody the comancheros brung down here,” the Irishman told Jonah.

It was in a tiny Chihuahua cantina that Hook ran across the fair-skinned, red-headed Irishman with the wild blue-gray eyes split by his swollen red nose. Jonah had been more than eager to lubricate the man’s tongue once he found out the Irishman might know something about the trade flowing back and forth across the Rio Grande into American territory. While the Irishman drank, Jonah and Two Sleep wolfed down steamy bowls of cornmeal porridge mulled by little chunks of raw brown peloncillo sugar.

Hook wiped his mouth, suspicious that he’d been taken by the red-eyed drunk. “Maybe you can tell me who some of these comancheros are. Names. Where I can find them. That’s all I need. Nothing else from you.”

The fleshy, corpulent Irishman weaved to his feet, a cup of the potent, homemade aguardiente in his hand, then crooked a finger for Hook to follow him from the table. When Two Sleep started to rise, the Irishman motioned the Indian to sit.

Stopping at the open doorway, the Irishman swayed against Jonah, then swung an arm slowly across the scene.

“Look there, Mr. Hook,” he said. “And say to me that you’ll find two boys in all of that dark, smelly nest of vermin. Unpossible.”

“I aim to find the comancheros first.”

“Look, I told you!” snapped the Irishman. “You come to the wrong place looking for help.”

“Just the name of one,” Hook asked, slipping out from beneath the fat one’s fleshy arm.

He drank, then dragged the dribble from his chin. “What do you see there, American? Look carefully and tell me.”

Hook studied the street throbbing with the comings and goings of all sorts of poor. Occasionally a vaquero rode by, resplendent in dress and horse trappings, forcing his way through the crowds of peons by his sheer presence. Only now did Jonah see a carriage roll by, matched fours pulling along the landed aristocracy of Mexico.

“There—that one,” Jonah said eagerly. “He’s a rich man. Bound to know some comancheros who trade into Texas, into Indian Territory.”

“Him?” the Irishman asked, pointing with a slosh of his cup. A pair of Mexicans entered the cantina, forced to duck beneath the Irishman’s outstretched arm. “You see a rich man there, no?”

“He will know the names of some comancheros—is that what you’re telling me?”

The mottled cheeks were flushed with the blush of tequila. “You have been looking in the wrong place, Mr. Hook. Looking for the wrong men.”

In angry confusion Jonah watched the Irishman turn away from the doorway and stumble back to ease himself into the chair once more. He dashed back to the table himself, slamming his two palms down on it as he sat.

“I’m here in Chihuahua—where the comancheros trade from, goddammit. Don’t drink my tequila, then play a riddle on me … telling us I’ve been looking the wrong place for the wrong folks.”

“See at the bar?” he asked, leaning in close to Jonah.

Hook turned, finding some vaqueros with their arms laced around several women in their blousy skirts and shiny high-heeled shoes that clacked along the plank floor. Near them were more well-dressed men. He grew weary of the game. “Them? That rich-looking bunch. You’re telling me they’re comanchero traders?”

“No. Not the obvious, my dear Mr. Hook. The others. There. See? And there. Look carefully and behold. And over there too.”

Jonah shook his head. It made no sense. Every man the drunk pointed out was as poor a dirt farmer or craftsman as a man would care to meet. Not a successful comanchero. Not like the vaqueros dressed so exquisitely as they drank with the whores at the bar.

“C’mon, Two Sleep,” he said with disgust and frustration as he rose.

“We go?”

“We’re going. This bastard’s drunk our tequila and spit back nothing in return. Hope you wake with your head pounding like a carpenter’s hammer.”

With a slap the Irishman dropped his soft, empty hand over Jonah’s wrist, pinning it to the table. “Listen, you fool—I am telling you everything you need to know short of what actually became of your boys.”