Milborne left the bar after two shots of whisky. The crowd had already become raucous, and he thought it best not to partake in the fun. Besides, he had an early morning job so an example needed setting. His men, Dobbs, Gate, and Buckshot, were still throwing a few back. He had faith, though, that they'd soon steer clear of the party like he did. Their hides would be in as much jeopardy as his if they failed their orders. So far he’d been able to trust that his towering lieutenant, Dobbs, would keep the other two in line.

A breeze rustled through the trees as Milborne walked along the dark and dusty Mexican street, back to the hostel where he and his crew were holdup for the last few days. The nearly full moon spread a good portion of pale light on the wooden buildings, making up the small town of Xochimilco, south of Mexico City.

While passing the front of a mercantile, he heard a scuffling from up around the corner and then the muffled sound of a woman’s cry. He pressed himself up against the building and peered around the corner into the alleyway. There, in the dim light, he saw two men who had her pinned against a wall.

“Come on sweetheart, you know you wanna—”

Milborne left the light of the street and advanced into the alley, disappearing into the same shadows. He drew his double-action revolver, cocking the hammer back with a click.

“You yellows have about two seconds before I make some new holes in ya.”

The outlines of two dark figures spun on their heels and high-tailed it. The woman slumped to the ground, sobbing.

Milborne approached her. “Listen... I ain’t gonna hurt ya, but you can't stay here by yerself. Too much goings’ on so near the cantina.”

She cried a soft thank you and scrambled away, in the opposite direction of her attackers.

He holstered the gun. It was the same old thing; enter a town, frequent the watering holes to learn who's who, then assist the local authorities as needed. He had a natural ability to shoot, but didn't like to do it much. Unfortunately, he had a heap of practice over the last few years of riding as a Rurales.

Running the small detachment as their captain had its perks. Like a fine LeMat Revolver and a genuine beaver-felt hat. But as time wore on, Milborne wearied of the work. Rurales were judge, jury, and executioner on the open range. Riding as a lightweight team on broncos and serving up instant justice.

He wanted to quit, but options were scarce. Ever since leaving the United States with a price on his head, he'd fled to Mexico and found work under the growing political instability of the president Diaz administration. The Mexican army was having a hard time keeping the peace, so the Rurales were established. But rebellious tejanos continued to fight back against a government who took their land.

Milborne thought pretty high of himself to hide from the Mexican authorities right under their noses as a hired gun. He thought being a Rurales would be the perfect cover to keep from being found out as a wanted man from America. As the unrest got worse, however, he wound up working closer and closer alongside the Mexican Army. It made him nervous every time they called upon his small regiment to round up more rebels and put them in prison. Milborne preferred to stay on the free side of those dead-end bars.

On the way back to the hostel to bed for the night, Milborne pondered his orders. The job was risky, as usual. They gave him and his crew the task of capturing a rebel along with his supposedly stolen silver coined double-eagles.

Early next morning, Milborne had the wagon all set near a small dock, away from the chiefly used part of the river. The tangled shoreline of thick shrubs and trees made a perfect place to hide in wait for the rendezvous. He used to be a wagon driver in the states, too, except he worked for a small company called Wells Fargo.

The job back then was legitimate. It required him to drive a well-secured wagon in the transfer of cash and sometimes precious metals from one bank to another. It was steady work, but also dangerous as holdups were bound to occur. He'd get paid immediately after the run, lose most of it on cards, then have to go back to work. Occasionally he even spent some on the ladies at the watering hole, but no chance of marriage ever came of it.

After an hour Milborne became impatient. This was the place they agreed upon. Did he miss something? There’d be hell to pay if he had gotten the orders wrong. The penny paper ‌it was written on had long been consumed by the fire he'd thrown it into after committing to memory.

High season had come to the river. Milborne spied many boats wading by, loaded with party-goers or mariachis playing loud music. Most of the shallow boats had a makeshift cabin section near the middle, created by draping colorfully decorated cloth over a simple wooden frame. The drivers plunging their long poles into the waterway to navigate much like the gondoliers of Venice.

Eventually, Milborne saw a boat break away from the pack and head in his direction. Gate was steering the boat, so he figured that Dobbs, Buckshot, and their prisoner were inside the cabin.

When the boat reached the dock, Dobbs emerged with the bound and gagged prisoner. He had a streak of dried blood on his face but he was conscious. Gate quickly helped him move the man from the boat to Milborne’s wagon. After that, both men went back inside and came out carrying a leather satchel. The coins landed with a clank as they slung the heavy bag into the back of the wagon next to their silent captive.

“There’s a hefty sum of silver in there,” Dobbs said. “Good thing we got him before the scum could use it to aid those revolutionaries.”

“Where’s Buckshot?” Milborne asked, realizing he should've been there, too.

“We lost him,” Dobbs replied. “Hazards of the job, I guess,” he added coolly. Without warning, both men boarded their boat and pushed away from the shore.

“I thought you guys were riding with me?” Milborne asked.

“Naaah, you can handle it,” Gate replied. “We have to ditch this thing to keep our cover from the rebels.”

“We’ll meet you at the jailhouse,” Dobbs called back.

It wasn't the plan, but Milborne now held both the silver and the prisoner. He tied down a heavy tarp that completely covered the open back of the wagon. All this cash on him now. Just like in the states. Except he had much more autonomy south of the line. Heck, he could probably disappear and get away with it.

He steered the two horses away from the river, easing the wagon along a dirt trail. No hurry. He didn’t want to arouse any attention. The next stop was in town to hand the prisoner and the money over to the local police. The temptation to take the money run was there. But he never stole the money back then and would not do it here.

After crossing a small bridge along the trail, four men on horses came out of nowhere and surrounded him. The Federales had their guns drawn. Barrels pointing at Milborne’s chest.